Desperado Sun
by Elysian Dawn
Summary: There is no place for an ordinary girl in the Hunger Games - certainly not for 15 year-old Summer Glenn of District 10. Summer's always seen the Games and the Capitol as far-off necessities that influence others. When the 69th Hunger Games come for her, however, she'll have no choice but to toss aside her notions and fight to survive, no matter what she must sacrifice on the way.
1. Bonfire

_**The 69**__**th**__** Hunger Games loom large before Panem. The annual selection of twenty-four children to perform in a gladiatorial festival of blood approaches as splinters pierce the Capitol. Rumbling thunder shakes the foundation of Panem's brightest jewel, and voices begin to call out against sitting President Snow in the dark recesses of the Capitol's forgotten corners.**_

_**In District 10, the Capitol is both savior and sinner. It is a boon to those born of the right class and a slavedriver to the unfortunate ones who are left to fall between the cracks of a stratified society. Fifteen year-old Summer Glenn has been fortunate her entire life: Born into one of the wealthy families of the district, she has not known the poverty and daily drag that plagues so many in this divided nation. But even she cannot escape the Capitol's horrors forever. In her trial from average girl to fighter, she will need more than luck to face up against this tyrannical and fracturing empire's fiercest tests.**_

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**District 10, Year of the 68****th**** Hunger Games | Autumn**

A beast appraises me from across the river.

Two eyes like dead suns gape and blink in the dying crimson light of the dusk. A dark mouth full of chipped teeth hangs open as a bassoon's moan echoes from the creature's throat. Water drips from the gaping jaws at a quick beat. The creature's ribs protrude from its skin, a reminder that even nature withholds wealth and privilege from those not born into its favor.

This forlorn bobcat and I have nothing in common. I have no need to jump the fence that surrounds District 10. Peacekeepers do not shoot at me like a pest like they do to desperate creatures such as this cat. There's food aplenty for the bobcat in District 10, from the cattle that roam my father's ranch land in the evening sun to the mud-caked pigs and chickens of the neighboring barns over across the river. It's food for the Capitol, however, not food for the bobcat.

I pick up a rock from the grass and pitch it across the river. The animal hisses at me and scampers away, heading off over the hills towards the Meatpacking Quarter, off to its people – the desperate, the poor, the factory and abattoir workers who struggle every day under the watchful eyes of Peacekeeper sentries for a set table and full belly.

I don't cross the river to follow.

A wet spray of spittle flies across my back. A chocolate-brown horse behind me neighs and kicks the ground, annoyed. Ruby's the runt of my father's horse stock, but she's been my ride for years now. Maybe she's small and less useful for herding the lowing cows that have been herded back into their fenced pens for the night, but she's a reliable and loyal mount. I rub my hand over her mane and hop onto her saddle, glancing one more time across the river.

The bobcat's long gone, lost in the red and gold autumn woods or stalking the dirty streets of the Quarter by now, hoping for scraps of trash even a desperate man wouldn't eat.

"Let's go, Rube," I say, tapping my heels into the horse's side.

Ruby trots along over the hills as the sun becomes a glowing memory. Purple and navy streaks set in to the eastern sky, and the soft yellow lights of ranching homesteads pop on like dozens of fireflies. Here lives my family and the others allowed to own land and property in the district, those who act as wardens in the Capitol's name.

The thousands of ranch hands, machinery operators, and others who work for the landowning families live in scattered villages across this half of District 10. Life may not be easy for them, but it's not terrible, either. There are no alien steel warehouses or processing plants on this side of the river like there are in the Quarter. There's no daily struggle to survive, no frenzied scarcity. The Peacekeepers have no need to keep a constant eye on everyone with the wide-open fields that stretch for miles to the west, and we get along with the Capitol's soldiers in an amiable truce. This district is a land of haves and have-nots, and we're the fortunate ones on this side of the river.

An equine snort to my left takes my attention away from the grassy hills and fields. A tan, tall horse saunters up from out of the encroaching darkness. A thin young woman with flowing blonde hair rides atop the animal, waving lazily to me as she strolls up.

"Hey sis," the woman says loudly, her voice ringing out in a thick alto. She pulls a thin brown jacket around her narrow shoulders as she stops her horse. "I thought you were coming home when your friends left?"

"Plano only went home a half-hour ago. I just wanted to sit for a while, anyway," I tell her. She's Holly, my older sister by four years, but you couldn't tell by glancing at the two of us. My blue eyes and brown hair, tied up tightly in a ponytail, look nothing like her loose appearance and warm, hazel eyes.

"The boy you're friends with?" she says, rolling her eyes. "So it's like _that_."

"It's not 'like that,' thanks," I say with a hint of indignation.

She scoffs, "I ain't saying nothin'. Just wanted to tell you that Dad's getting drunk and arguing with Mom again. Best not to go home just yet. C'mon, Austin has a bonfire going. We can go hang out until it gets late."

I follow Holly off over a low hill to the south. Music carries on the dry, cool wind as we cross over the hill. A bonfire blazes a hundred meters off in the distance, with a hundred people scattered around it. I trot Ruby closer, spotting several people – ranch hands, probably – playing a common game on this side of the river, with one rolling a large hoop along the ground as others try to throw long poles through it from as far away as possible. It's a game I've played with Holly since I was young. The hands laugh and shout taunts to each other as they play.

One thin, relaxed man in a dark duster slouches down near the fire. Black hair hangs into his eyes, sticking out at odd angles from underneath a wide brown hat. It waves in the evening wind as if dancing along to the upbeat soprano melody he plays from a harmonica. He's no ranch hand. I recognize him immediately: He's Austin Ortega, the winner of the 52nd Hunger Games seventeen years ago. He may not look like much of a victor now, lying on an elbow in the dirt along with the husbandry workers, but he's one of the Capitol's favorite survivors – and one of the most polarizing figures in the district.

Austin volunteered for the Hunger Games, the annual contest of survival, skill, and brains put on by the capital city of our country, Panem. He didn't volunteer to be one of the twenty-four tributes from the twelve districts out of any obligation to his family, nor out of loyalty to a friend. Austin saw the Games the way few in District 10 do: As an uplifting, if risky, means to escape an ordinary life out on the prairie. As the son of a dairy plant machinery operator, Austin had little chance of having a life that didn't involve scraping to get by day after day. Now he's the richest man in District 10, an ideal shown off by the Capitol as the kind of success story forged by the Games.

I don't know what to make of Austin. The Hunger Games are part of life to me, a force of nature, a universal constant rather than any cruelty or the other derisive names tossed around the Meatpacking Quarter. They were in place when I was born, and they'll be going when I die. Most who are selected to participate in them never leave the arenas that host the Games with their lives. The few who do, like Austin, never worry again.

Nothing to worry about now, however. The 68th running of the Hunger Games ended three months ago, with the winner a lithe, enticing girl from District 1 named Persephone. The boy and girl from District 10 who Austin mentored died early on in the contest. I doubt he bat an eyelash over their fates. I didn't, either. I didn't know them and couldn't pick them out of the tens of thousands of others who live in District 10. Why worry?

"Wanna go down?" Holly asks, pointing down to the fire.

As if she'll let me say no. I shrug and say, "Sure."

We tie the reins of our horses to a nearby tree before heading down. Holly leaves me almost immediately, splitting off with three other older girls in a flurry of chatter. I don't recognize the workers around, almost all of whom are older than me. I stand awkwardly off to the side of the fire with my hands in my pockets until someone whistles loudly.

"Glenn girl?" a high, scratchy male voice calls out. "Summer Glenn, right? Why don'tcha sit down rather than just stand there like a statue?"

I glance over. Austin's staring at me with those smoky eyes of his, harmonica in hand. I've never spoken to the man in my life. How does he recognize me?

I maneuver around a pair of drunk, arguing ranch hands and squat down to his right. Austin sets his harmonica down and pitches a rock towards the hoop game going on nearby. His rock slices through the rolling hoop like a missile, cutting off into the growing darkness beyond.

"Don't think I've talked to you before," Austin says, staring back into the fire. "I hate not knowing people."

"You know my name," I say with a shrug.

"Yeah. Your chatty sister's hard to avoid," he says. "Guess I'll have to deal with it, though. I do business with your dad, and it sounds like he's grooming her to step into his shoes sometime down the road."

"He is."

"Well, that's no bad life. Big sky, open fields, herds of cows and fast horses. Little romantic, even."

"It's not your life."

I don't know why I said that. I glance back at the fire quickly as he turns to look at me. When I flick my eyes over at him again, I see shadowy demons dance across his clean-shaven face in the fire's light. Something in those smoldering eyes reminds me that I'm not talking to some kind-hearted victor, but a man who knifed his ally and district partner in the back during the final days of his Hunger Games.

"That's right," he says slowly. "It's not my life."

An awkward silence descends like a vulture between us. I curl my hands around my knees and stare at an angry coal in the bonfire. I've never been the best conversationalist. I'm not Holly, who stands twenty meters away with a pack of other girls and boys her age. I have friends, sure, and I'm not unpopular, but my circle of friends is small and close-knit. They're people who I'm comfortable trusting after years of knowing them.

Austin guffaws next to me. His laugh's high-pitched and sharp, like a jackal's cry. He pitches a handful of grass into the fire and says, "Quiet one. Whatcha hiding? You want my life too, heh? You want this, what, celebrity? Friendship, if you can call it that, with President Snow and Executor Scipio? Treating with Caesar Flickerman?"

He turns away and smoothes out a crease in his duster. "It ain't bad. Gotta be careful sometimes, though."

"Like when you have to kill somebody?"

Once again I say something stupid. This time, however, Austin merely raises an eyebrow and lies back before saying, "What makes you think I've killed anybody?"

"You won the Games," I shrug. "You killed, like, eight other tributes in it."

"Did I?"

"What else would you call it?"

"Shades of gray. You see things like Cal does, just in black and white," Austin says, referring to District 10's older surviving victor and winner of the 41st Hunger Games, Callum Taylor. "The Capitol puts on the Games. The people watch 'em. All I did was perform, like a gun firing a bullet. I was a particularly accurate gun. Do you blame the gun for shooting someone?"

"That's different. You volunteered."

"Not much different about it. The Games don't end until one person's left. The one black and white thing about the Games is that someone's going to be the gun. I just stepped up and let the Games fire me."

He waves his hand around the fire, glancing over at a pair of off-duty Peacekeepers talking to two flirty young women. "Look at me now. Better than living in the Quarter, heh? Sometimes it's good to be a gun."

I see why many people don't like this victor. Austin's cold view sends goosebumps across my arms, even in the warmth of the fire. I wonder if he even knew the names of the two kids he mentored this year.

"Does everyone in the Capitol think like that? Like they have no responsibility?" I say. Malice infects my words as I tighten my grip on my knees.

"You're an idealistic little thing, huh?" Austin says. "I know a lotta people don't like the Games. I'm not saying they're nice or whatever the Capitol calls 'em. Oh, yeah, a 'pageant of honor.' Not quite. People die. Not a whole lot of people from districts like ours want to volunteer to be a part of that. I get it."

I spit into the fire. "It's not like we really have great odds. How many times have the volunteer kids from the inner districts won in a row?"

"Seven. Ever since Enobaria in '62 and now up to Persephone this year. It might not look like we're trying, Summer, but Cal and I do. Every victor does, even if they're as drunk as a toddler with a beer."

"Do you give toddlers beer often?"

"When I want them to shut up, sure."

He laughs and throws another log into the fire. "That's a good metaphor for life after the Games. You get all the money and laurels for winning, new trinkets and attention and experiences. You get the best medical attention around courtesy of the Capitol and you'll never be hungry. You're safe from the things that'll kill ya here. But there's a dark side for those who didn't go in knowing what they wanted."

"Are you saying people should volunteer every year, or something?" I ask.

"Nah. But I am saying that people shouldn't think of the Games either as damning or 'honorable'. It's a mixed bag."

I rest my chin on my knee and gaze into the fire. "I wouldn't volunteer. Sorry."

"Well, you're what, fifteen?" he says with a shrug. "Sometimes the Games have a way of finding you. Maybe that's my way, where you've got nothing to lose. Or maybe it's because you're Reaped, and you've got no choice. It's a big district, and you don't need no tesserae, but I wouldn't start thinking too far ahead if I were you. Four more years of Reapings is a long time."

Austin stands up and wipes dirt off his pants. He stuffs his harmonica in his pocket, tosses another log on the fire, and says, "I'm going to go get the Peacekeepers drunk. Have a little fun with my evening. Now I know you, Summer Glenn. That's all I wanted."

He walks off without another word. I stare after him, wondering what to make of Austin Ortega. I don't understand his views. Volunteering for the Hunger Games is unthinkable in my eyes – not when I can work my father's ranch and live here without too many worries. Sure, Austin doesn't worry about anything anymore, besides what happens once a year in the arena. But why take that chance? Why risk everything on a slim chance of winning everything?

Holly walks up with a smile plastered on her face. She sits down next to me and points towards Austin's retreating figure, saying, "Were you talking to him?"

"Yeah," I say.

"You know Austin?"

"No. Well, I do now."

"Isn't he interesting?" Holly says with a glimmer in her eye. "I wonder what it'd be like to be him, to be able to go to the Capitol or any of the districts whenever he wants. Just to have all that…stuff."

Funny. I wonder what it'd be like to be my sister. She has her whole life planned out: No more Reapings, no more chances to become Austin Ortega – or the tributes he watches get killed every year. She's got the family ranch all laid out for her to take over when my parents grow old, and she's one of the more popular girls this side of the river. She really doesn't have any worries, just like Austin – except she's never killed a person. She's never been the gun.

Like Austin said, that possibility's still in my future. I've never thought much about being picked for the Games besides the past three Reaping Days that I've been eligible for. I've never thought about what it would be to step in front of the nation, to put myself on display, to open up every nook and cranny in my guarded soul for the crowd to _ooh_ and _aah_ over before waging war against twenty-three other kids in the exact same situation.

I shake away the thoughts. Better to stay here. Better to stay in front of the fire in this district. Maybe it's a slow life, maybe it's a tad too predictable, but that certainty has its benefits. It's not a bad life on this side of the river in District 10. It could be worse.

As Austin said, taking the dive into the Games has a dark side to it.

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_**Author's note: Thanks for reading chapter 1! I'm always open to questions, comments, critiques, or whatnot, so feel free to open up about what you think any time while reading the story. I've taken some minor creative liberties with the Capitol and Panem for the story's effect, but nothing drastic. Just spicing up the Hunger Games with a little flair here and there.**_

_**The Hunger Games, Panem, the Districts, the Capitol, President Snow, Finnick Odair, Enobaria, Gloss, Glimmer, and all proprietary characters belong to Suzanne Collins. Rated T for violence, suggestive and aggressive themes, and the occasional swear word. **_


	2. The Far Side of the River

_**Thanks for the kind reviews, BethanyDee and thefanfictionnetwork!**_

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Fall wanes into winter, winter blooms into spring. Flowering mahogany trees explode in fireworks of color before sheathing their branches in lush coats of green. Golden daffodils spring up in the grazing fields as cheery harbingers of the coming summer. Newborn calves trip over their own legs in our barns, blinking rapidly in the spring daylight. The raspy _chik-chik-chik_ of cicadas calls out in the warm evenings behind an orchestra of gossamer violins.

Across the river, the gears turn on, the warehouses and factories churn out product, and resentment brews like an overcooked stew.

Gone are my winter coats and heavy boots, shelved until the winter snows so easily forgotten here in the waning days of spring. Keeping an eye on my father's herd of cattle keeps my eyes focused, but something lingers in the back of my mind, an unwelcome guest that refuses to leave the recesses of my thoughts.

When the Reaping approaches, I feel a gummy knot of nerves coalesce in my stomach. I've never been worried about the Games much in the past, but why worry now? Yet Austin's words – _sometimes the Games have a way of finding you_ – speak to me when I close my eyes at night.

Golden spears of light break through my window on the morning of the 69th Reaping. I rub my eyes with my fists and throw my curtains across my window. I don't want to wake up today.

_Relax_, I tell myself. The situation's no different than any other year. Wake up. Pull your clothes on. The Reaping's not until five, anyway, one of the last of the day across Panem's districts. Plenty of time to calm down before the town forum beckons you to join the thousands of other eligible children.

I shove off my gray wool blankets and stand up, stretching my arms against the rough wooden wall of my bedroom. It's still cool from the humid night. I shiver as I slip into our home's bathroom, careful not to wake my slumbering sister or parents. They've always been late risers.

The faucet's cool water snaps my skin to life and opens my eyes. I pull my dark hair back when it refuses to cooperate and throw a simple green shirt on over my head. I'll dress into something more appropriate for the Reaping later, but for now, I don't care about looks. It takes me less than five minutes to go from bed to out the door. My family won't miss me until they need me, which isn't today.

I trot off into the long grass and glance back our homestead. It glows yellow in the early morning light as the sun bounces off the house's wood paneling. Our border collie, Shep, rolls over on the porch, knocking gnats and dew away with his white-banded tail. It's peaceful, stable. Normal.

I sigh and shake off my thoughts. Stupid.

The sun lazily climbs above the woods as I make my way down to the Ranching Yard, the village square for this side of the river. It's a half-mile from my family's homestead and a happening place, even in the early morning. Merchants and field hands crowd around a hundred low-slung wooden buildings, their feet kicking up dust in the well-worn streets that cut through town. Clothes of red and blue hang outside on clothes lines like proud flags. It's one of our key markers that separates us from the warehouse workers and laborers. Over on that side of the district, most people can't afford much color in their lives besides the flowers of the fields and the woods.

An old woman in a plaid shawl argues with a medicines and herbs vendor as I walk down the road, stamping her foot angrily in front of his wooden cart and white-bannered stand. She throws her hand in the vendor's face and walks away as he yells after her, "Fine! Walk away! You can't buy happiness!"

He looks around quickly, spotting me and several others giving him looks. "Wait a minute, sure you can!" he corrects himself quickly. "But only at my stand! And for a very affordable price!"

"Hm," a quiet, gravelly voice grunts to my right. "I didn't know happiness smelled like garlic."

I look over quickly. A tall boy my age with sandy hair and brown eyes appraises the vendor's stand with an amused grin. A grass stain dirties his patchy woolen shirt, and dust already has begun to collect on his jeans. I've known him for years. He's Plano Molina, one of my two best friends in the district.

"You're up early," I say. Plano's always been a late riser.

"Looking for Odessa?" he says, nodding his head down the main street of the Yard. "I caught up with her earlier. She's buying something or other for her family for after the Reaping. Let's go catch up. I don't really want to buy happiness, anyway."

I glance back over my shoulder. A huge, muscled man in a yellowed duster hands over a sack of coins to the vendor and scoops up a handful of seed pods. The vendor throws up his hands in triumph, exclaiming, "Sir, you are a man who knows what it is to find happiness! But you're a victor, after all, so that's a given."

I shudder. As the man turns around, I see it's not Austin. He's too big, anyway – Austin's a thin man, and this guy is a hulk with a thick mustache and high cheekbones complementing a mane of black, dirty hair. He's Cal, our other victor, the winner of the 42nd Games, and Austin's senior by ten years. He keeps a wide berth from the rest of the district, and given the chilly expression on his face, I don't question why.

"Yeah, let's go," I say to Plano.

Plano laughs as we walk down the street. "That guy sure did find some happy."

"What d'you mean?" I ask.

"You hear the rumors. I don't know if they're true, but I saw what he was buying," he says. "Cal's a drug addict if there ever was one."

I look over my shoulder again, but Cal's already gone. I won't press the issue. I'm not sure I even want to know what Plano means. It's common knowledge that many of the victors in Panem haven't dealt with their winning well. You can see it on the screens whenever they're shown during the televising of each year's Games, or just from the district gossip that gets around after Austin's blabbed to someone in town about the latest in the Capitol.

One more reason not to get caught up in the Games.

A lean girl with long auburn hair darts out of a storefront down the road, carrying a head of lettuce under her arm. She points at Plano and I, mouths "hey", and jogs towards us. I befriended the girl, Odessa Rhodes, back when we were both in school, before either of us had even met Plano. She's flirty and reminds me of my sister sometimes, but she's a good friend all the same.

"You two are walking way too close together," she says when we're in earshot. "Nope. I'm scooting between you."

"You're gonna divide us with lettuce?" Plano says. "What a dangerous weapon."

"I could hit you with this," Odessa retorts. "They'll have to mourn you at the Reaping, because you'll be too hurt to come."

"What a tragedy that'd be," Plano says and rolls his eyes.

I walk along quietly as they banter. Plano and Odessa are good for each other, and I think they'd make a fine couple. I can't help but feel a little left out sometimes from their conversations. Still, I don't mind too much. They're friends. I trust them, and that's enough for me.

I snap back to the conversation just as Odessa whines, "…gonna miss you at the Reaping when we're nineteen, Summer!"

"What?" I say with a light laugh.

"When you're eighteen and we're nineteen," Odessa frowns as we walk off of the street. "It's gonna be all sad having to watch you stand there with the other kids in the square."

"It's gonna be sad for all of thirty minutes?" I ask. "'Cuz…we go there, we stand around, and then we go home."

"You're talking all of the drama out of it," Odessa frowns, as if the Reapings for the next four years already are set to pick kids from across the river. Given the odds, however, I'm inclined to agree.

We purchase thin onion soups at a nearby vendor and sit down in the grass on a hill overlooking the Yard to eat breakfast. Cattle roam the fields for miles in every direction. They're little bugs lost among the green sea, interspersed with workers starting the day. Reaping Day's no different for most workers in District 10, except that everyone on this side of the district crosses the river before five to report to the town square. Heck, Odessa and Plano only have free time to spend with me given that everyone still eligible for the Games doesn't have to work today. Otherwise, they'd be off in the fields with their ranch-hand parents, tending to the herds of my family's neighbors.

The Reaping's only a quick intermission in the steady crawl of life, the Hunger Games something that impact so few people in this place of so many. It really does make the Capitol feel so far away, like an absent parent reluctant to interfere with their child's life. If it weren't for the Peacekeepers hanging around the Yard and the fence, most of us on this side of the river would hardly notice the Capitol on a daily basis.

I leave my two friends as the sun lazily begins its descent in the afternoon sky. Both my parents are out when I return to my home – big surprise – but Holly's waiting for me when I step inside.

"Why are you here?" I ask her as I close the screen door with a bang.

"Just thought someone should go with you to the square, since we'll all be watching from the street screens," Holly says. Since District 10's so large, only the eligible kids file into the square. Older people like her and my parents watch from side streets around the town forum.

She plays with her hair and glances up at me. "Nervous?"

"Why would I be nervous?" I ask, sticking my hands on my hips.

"I dunno, I just – I always was when I was younger before Reapings," my sister says with a shrug, looking away towards our small kitchen. "Stupid, I guess. Nobody here gets picked."

I scrunch up an eye at her before heading up the stairs to change. It is stupid. She's making me feel weird inside, like there's something to be afraid of. It's the Reaping. It happens every year. What's any different about this one?

Nothing to worry about. I shake off the nagging doubts and take my time changing into a plain blue dress for the Reaping. I leave my hair as it is. The Capitol can deal with a little subtlety on my part.

I waste time in the bathroom before tromping downstairs. Holly's twiddling her thumbs like a butterfly's wings when she looks up and sees me.

"Aren't you getting a bit big for that dress?" she asks with arched eyebrows. "You wore it the last two years."

"It's fine," I say simply.

"Why don't you wear one of my old ones?"

"It's fine. Can we just go and stop arguing about it?"

Holly sighs and gets up, nodding towards the door. She's making this a lot more complicated than it needs to be. An hour from now, I'll be back home and nothing will have changed here at the homestead. Why get all worked up?

I huff and shove the door out of my way, walking out into the golden afternoon sunshine. Others from around the district are moseying down towards the river bridge, heading towards the dilapidated town forum in clusters here and there. Holly grabs my hand to lead me on, but I shake her off.

"Why are you being all weird?" I ask her as I pull away.

"What am I supposed to do, just say 'bye' and run off?" she says, holding her hands out innocently. "I'm your big sister, I'm supposed to walk with you and whatever."

"Yeah, and you're not Mom."

"Well, one day I'll have kids. I'm already nineteen. I'll need to know what to do with them –"

"So I'm your test bed," I roll my eyes. "Thanks, Holly. Great. Let's go then, surrogate mother."

She mumbles something under her breath but walks on with me. This isn't really the conversation I want to be having right now. Her concern's welled up a ball of nausea in my stomach from out of nowhere. Now I'm feeling anxious for no reason over the Reaping. _Way to go, big sister._

We don't speak to each other as we make our way over the wide stone bridge that spans the river. The water's moving fast today as I look down, blurring my reflection in its lapping crests. Little fish, minnows maybe, swirl in shiny schools under its dark surface. When I look up to where we're going, however, everything turns darker.

This side of the river isn't as idyllic and open as the ranches. Big, boxy canneries and meatpacking plants rise up on the horizon, faceless steel and mortar sepulchers. I spot the laborer children, they with the skinny arms and sunken faces and dirty hair like fields of charred wheat. They wear gray and tan and colors of the earth, camouflaged like oversized chameleons amidst the bright colors crossing the bridge to the Quarter. Even the stone masonry of the few buildings that surround the town forum a half-mile in the distance look disheveled and beaten under the sun. The square was surpassed as the merchant's ward years ago by the Yard, as the businesses of town flocked to those with money. Now only a few cheap clinics, bakeries, and grocers fill the yawning windows of the dark buildings here.

When we approach the line of Peacekeepers checking other children in, Holly grabs my shoulder and spins me around.

"Remember, just –" she starts.

"I know!" I say, my tone more of a snarl than I meant. "Relax, Holls! I do this every year!"

She breathes deeply and looks away. I hate when she gets all maternal, but I don't like hurting her, either. Holly's more fragile than her nineteen years reflect sometimes, leaving me often wondering who's really the older sister here.

"'Kay," she says with a forced smile. "See you after it's all done."

I shrug her off and don't look back. I feel bad for yelling at her, but I just want to get this done with. We can talk later.

The Peacekeeper jabs my finger to let me into the square, where Plano's waiting for me. He's hardly made an effort to look better besides running a hand through his hair and throwing a plain brown vest over his shirt. Clearly he doesn't think he'll be picked, either.

"You okay?" he asks me with a tilt of the head. "You look all mad."

"Holly's just being an idiot," I grunt, more to myself than to him. "It's nothing. Where's Odessa?"

"She already went off to her group. Listen, what are you doing after this?"

I raises an eyebrow at him. "Going home to eat dinner. Why?"

"Nothin'," he waves it off with a wry grin. "Since I have the day off, I was just – yeah, forget it."

I sheepishly smile at him before hanging my head and walking off to the fifteen year-old girls' roped-off section. Now it's not just Holly acting weird. Plano's usually the most natural person I can imagine around me. What's his deal?

Plano's family isn't much to write home about it, but more poisonous thoughts enter my head. _Maybe he wants you to be busy so he can charge through Odessa's barn door finally_, I think. _Or not. Forget it. Stupid boys being stupidly cryptic_ _right before the Reaping_.

I glance around as I toss the thoughts out of my head. Two dozen stilt-mounted cameras line the rooftops of the stone buildings around the square, but this place looks as lonely as ever. Take away all the other bored or disheveled children around me and it'd be a mausoleum. The district Hall of Law before us looks absolutely apocalyptic, as if it's some relic from a bygone age with its stone façade and dusty crimson-and-gold Panem banner hanging from the roof. The desolate stage that's been set up atop the Hall's steps appears like a king's throne before a forgotten, evacuated empire. The only thing alive and responsive here are the Peacekeepers in full combat armor, looking much more alert and wary than I ever see over on our side of the river.

I bet this all makes for terrible television.

Our mayor, a woman with strawberry blonde hair in her mid-forties named Irving, slouches down on a wooden chair on the stage. She's a sad sight, really. The mayor position has little power in District 10. It's the wealthiest families – like my own - and merchants that run the show here in District 10 under the Capitol and Peacekeeper's eyes. All Mayor Irving has to do is make sure everyone in the Quarter shows up for work and takes the packaged animal products to the cargo trains from the Capitol that stop by every evening.

I cringe as Austin comes around from behind the building and steps onto the stage. I haven't seen him since that night eight months ago around the bonfire, and I don't much care to see him again. He's joined quickly by Cal, who maneuvers through a small opening between the two bronze doors of the Hall. Cal looks even more imposing from a distance than he does up close, with his shoulder muscles rippling underneath his tight dust-colored shirt. He looks like a tribute from District 2 or one of the other volunteer districts up there. Rumors say that the few people who know him call him kind-hearted, but with his wide hat casting a shadow over his hardened granite face, I'm content not knowing.

The final member of this song-and-dance shows up five minutes after the big clock on the top of the Hall strikes five. Every year, each district in Panem receives an escort – one Capitol citizen who helps organize the district's representation in the Hunger Games. I've seen other escorts for other districts on television in past Games, decked out in horrible, gaudy Capitol clothing and speaking enthusiastically, as if they were lecturing to toddlers.

That's not our escort, a woman in her late thirties named Cesara Vaughn. Far from it.

I'm convinced Cesara hates her job, but it must pay good as she keeps coming back every year. She hasn't been fired, either, so she must be a decent escort. Still, her droopy eyes, so much like my dog Shep's on a sleepy afternoon, convey an image of absolute boredom in repeating the same Capitol-prepared statement to District 10 year after year. She wears her scarlet hair modestly, and even her clothes aren't a complete atrocity, as she's donned a boring, sleeveless, lilac blouse and black pants for the Reaping. She doesn't even have any strange akin alterations like so many other Capitol citizens shown on screen during the Hunger Games of past years. The most Capitol-like thing on her is a set of spindly, skeletal-like tattoos that slither up her arms and under her blouse like coiling serpents. It's certainly not an inviting sight, but almost intimidating, in a way.

"District 10," she calls out, her voice ringing with all the charm of an earthworm cooking in the sun. I wonder if she broke Capitol tradition and woke up early. "I see you're all here. That's good."

I don't know if that was supposed to be a joke, but she silently mouths something that looks like "screw it" before moving on. "It's time for a speech from Mayor Irving, followed by a short video. I'll let her take over."

That was quick. As Mayor Irving moves into the same thing she tells us every year, I find myself entranced watching the interaction between Austin and Cesara. He points at her, smiles, and says a few rude thing I can make out from here, leading to a scowl from her. Austin seems to revel in tormenting the Capitol escort. All the time through the speech and video that follows it, however, Cal sits silently next to him. He folds his arms and pulls his hat lower over his face, blocking out the descending sun and looking as if he'd rather be anywhere but here.

Cesara steps back up as the video ends on the big screen next to the stage. She coughs loudly into the microphone before announcing, "As every year, let's pick our two tributes from District 10. One boy, one girl."

She holds up three fingers when she says "one girl," leading someone next to me to mutter, "Way to count." I snort in response.

At least Cesara's efficient. She walks quickly to the boy's bowl, sticking her hand in and snatching out a slip of paper with a name on it in one quick move. Austin says something to Cal and rolls his eyes as Cesara steps back to the microphone with the slip in hand.

"It's uh…Thorne Cochrane," Cesara calls out with a hesitation in her announcement.

A ripple grows in the sixteen year-olds' section of the boys. I glance back as two Peacekeepers shove aside several boys and grab hold of someone. As they push out from the crowd, I get a glimpse of Thorne.

He's ordinary, in every sense of the word. His gray, baggy clothes mark him as a resident of this side of the district, and his loose brown hair looks like it hasn't been combed in ages. He's short for a boy, only about as tall as I am, and his face, still lined with baby fat, makes him look even younger. Like a lot of the other kids from the laboring families, he's thin. I doubt he's had the kind of meals we're used to across the bridge.

Thorne slowly slips up to the stage and climbs the steps with heavy, measured footsteps. Cesara shakes his hand and tells him something before looking out for volunteers. They're not as uncommon as one might think in a far-off district like District 10, but nobody sticks up for Thorne. He's in.

Cesara tosses Thorne's slip into the air and moseys over to the girls' bowl. I let my eyes lose focus as she digs around for a slip in the glass bowl. Should I be feeling sorry for whichever girl gets picked? Should I think like Austin told me months ago – that the Games are neither hell nor heaven? After all, whatever girl gets picked – probably from this side of the river – she'll have a shot at winning, no matter how small. Every tribute does. That's a shot at riches and safety, a life without worry ever again. Is that worth the extreme risk of the Games?

Maybe. Maybe so, if she's desperate.

But the girl who Cesara calls in her bored voice isn't desperate. Not at all.

"Glenn. Summer Glenn," Cesara drolls.

I freeze. Summer? Summer Glenn? But that's me. I'm not supposed to be called. I'm supposed to be immune to this sort of thing, untouched by odds that only pick their victims from this side of the river. No. Can't be.

The girls around me have noticed my tension. They start to back away almost instinctively, even those who don't know me. The Peacekeepers close in, and I look up to Austin on the sage. He leans forward, his elbows on his knees, his eyes no longer full of amusement. They're now hardened, squinting blocks of charcoal hell-bent on seeing what I do next.

It's as if his eyes are repeating that line he told me around the bonfire, saying, "_I wouldn't start thinking too far ahead, if I were you_."


	3. The Games End, the Games Begin

_**A/N: Thanks for the reviews, guys! I always love to hear feedback on the story to know what's working, what's not, and all. Thanks for your readership and for the faves/follows, too!**_

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Time is a funny thing. During the best of times, it can race away into the future like a horse over miles of open prairie. It's gone before you see it coming, rushing past with a cloud of dust and naught but a neigh or whinny to mark its passing. But on the long, slow, hot days of dust and bitter heat, or the worst of times of loss and languish, time moves like a tortoise at high noon. It drags its feet, hides in its shell, and makes you look upon its each and every measured step.

My legs take on a life of their own. As my mind floats through a hazy fog like a lost sailing ship, I slowly make my way towards the stage. A thousand eyes of fellow kids watch me walk past, a horde of frog eggs ogling my petrification.

_Thud. Thud_. My feet step one after another up the old stone steps of the stage. Cesara grabs my arm with one cold, clammy hand, dragging me up with a corpse's stiff grip. I don't hear her say something to me, but only watch her lips move. She puts a hand on my shoulder, tightens her lips, and tells me to shake hands with Thorne.

Thorne. Yes, this boy, this beaten-down child of a beaten-down people, is my fellow tribute from District 10. Tears streak down his face as he grabs my hand with limp fingers, letting me go without as much as a shake.

He's crying, but I haven't had the wherewithal to let even a single tear fall yet. I'm hollowed out, a burnt paper wasp's nest, all the feelings within me flying away to some unforeseen locale. I feel dead already. Cold. Lost. Alone.

I don't bother looking back at the crowd as a Peacekeeper leads me into the Hall of Law's interior. My vision's narrowed into a tunnel, the sides clouded with a stratus haze. Maybe the Peacekeeper recognizes me or takes sympathy, because he gently eases me onto a green plush couch in an ornate, wood-paneled room with soft eggshell lights hanging from the ceiling. The Peacekeeper across the hall isn't so kind to Throne, shoving him to the ground before slamming his room shut.

My own room's door closes softly, and I have a chance to compose myself. I rub the shock from my eyes, glancing up above the door at a painting of green fields and blue skies above. Will I ever run in those fields again? Will I ever feel those plains winds? Not if I go by the odds, no.

I wait a full five minutes with just my thoughts before my parents walk in. They're composed, but pain's evident on their faces. I've never been very close with either my mother or father, and the words don't come easily now. Our good-bye conversation's short and full of the platitudes I don't want to hear right now.

I don't know _what_ I want to hear right now.

The door opens again, and Holly falls into my arms. I have to struggle to catch her, both against her momentum and my own sapped strength. She's a wreck, her eyes full of tears, dark smudges lining her cheeks like the memento of a burnt-out fire.

"I should have done something," Holly blubbers, slumping down on the couch next to me. "This shouldn't even be happening. This isn't supposed to happen to people like us."

It's a strange feeling I realize. We never give much thought to the Hunger Games across the river, where so few ever are Reaped. But when the Reaping hits home on that rare occasion, it's all the more painful for people like Holly – and me.

"Holls, it's okay," I say to my older sister, helping her sit up. _Why am I helping HER?_ "Don't you worry about me."

"And I was being a _jerk _to you earlier, and now I might not even _see_ you again…" she goes on.

I struggle to keep my own composure as she breaks down. I'm having a hard enough time with the own emptiness in my heart. "Holly, listen," I tell her, holding on to her shoulder to steady her. "I…"

I pause. What do I want to say? What can I say in the minute or two we have together that will say what's in my heart and my head?

Holly doesn't let me finish. She wraps me in a hug and lays her head on my shoulder.

"Don't wanna lose you, baby sis," she sniffs.

"You won't," I say.

But I don't know if that's a promise or a lie.

Holly doesn't resist when a Peacekeeper comes to get her. She grabs my hand one last time and leaves in a swirl of blonde hair. Hair. That's the last I might ever see of my older sister.

The Peacekeeper lets the door linger open, and I spy what can only be Thorne's family filing out from his room alongside a Peacekeeper. His two parents look like hollowed-out trees, each tall and limber yet bearing tear-stained faces and empty eyes like dead cattle on the plains. A little girl, probably no more than eight, walks alongside them. She's old enough to know what's going on, and the whimpers coming from her throat, so much like the cries of a calf that's lost its mother during the simmering heat of summer, threaten to draw tears from my eyes.

I look away from Thorne's family, these people from this far side of the river. To them, I must seem like someone from another district entirely. I doubt they'll be sending any district support my way.

Plano and Odessa hurry in a minute later, and to my surprise, both are holding it together. Plano wears a bright hand mark on his cheek, and given the way Odessa unloads as soon as she enters the room, I'm guessing she took out her emotions on him already.

"This is so screwed up," she yells to the room as a whole once the Peacekeeper's closed the door. "This isn't how it's supposed to work. I mean, you're…"

She pauses, and it's all the time I need to lose the grip on my feelings. I've kept them under wraps since my name was called, but now with my likely final two visitors and my time running short, I can't keep the tears from falling. I slump down on the couch, place my face in my hands, and start to cry.

I hear Plano say something quiet to Odessa as I stare into the muddled darkness of my palms. The couch cushions lurch as he sits down next to me and puts a hand on my shoulder.

"Summer? You're gonna be fine," he says softly. "You okay?"

"No, I'm _not_ okay," I growl through my tears. "I'm not okay, and I'm not going to fine! I don't even want to be seen like this, I just…I don't know."

I lift my hands away from my face. Odessa's crouched down in front of me, her face smoothing out after her initial angry burst. She grabs my hand and says, "You can get through it, Summer. It's tough, I know."

"Don't even worry about what you look like," Plano chimes in.

"But the cameras and the –"

"Summer!" Plano tightens his grip on my shoulder. "Forget them. Forget 'em! Whatever the cameras and viewers and anything want…just do what you have to do. In the end, who cares what the victor did or how they looked? They won."

Odessa stands up and pulls me up by the arms. She wraps her arms around me and whispers, "Just come back, Sum. However you have to. Just come back."

I only nod. A few minutes is up faster than it looks: Before I can say another word, the Peacekeeper's back for Odessa and Plano. They file out quietly, heads down, but Plano turns at the last minute before shuffling into the hall. He balls up his fist, looks me dead in the eye, and taps his heart once.

Just like that, he's gone.

I flop back down on the couch. I'm alone, save for the skinny spider in the corner of the ceiling and the specks of dust lingering in the afternoon sun that shines through the window. Everything's so still in this room. It's a chamber time forgot, freezing and blowing by, leaving me and my thoughts encapsulated in a prison of the mind. Demons fly in from the recesses of my brain, threatening me with bloody death, shameful embarrassment on national television, or worse things that flicker only in cloudy nebulas without form or name.

Minutes tick by with all the hurry of a wind in the doldrums. I lie down on the couch, resting my head against my hands and staring up at the channels in the pine ceiling boards. Does Thorne have a lot of visitors? Will everyone on this side of the river miss him, mourn for him, and bury him with full honors? Will anyone extend that hand for me?

The door creaks open suddenly with a sharp whine. I expect to see a Peacekeeper waiting to lead me out, but there's no white armored man to meet me. It's Cesara.

My escort looks much more tired in the cramped confines of the Hall of Law. Her eyes aren't so droopy, but reflect the same sort of emptiness that I feel in my own heart. They're grey and large, full of a cold chill like that on a cloudy winter morning. Small creases run under her eyes, eluding the makeup that cakes her face like flour.

"You set, kid?" she asks. Her voice is much friendlier up close, when she's not shouting for all of District 10 to hear.

I get up without a word and follow Cesara out. Thorne's standing there, his eyes scarlet and running with water. His cheeks have paled since I first shook his hand, his cheekbones suddenly more pronounced and protruding. Neither of us speak as Cesara leads us down the dark, narrow hallway and past a giant, floor-to-ceiling portrait of President Snow. He leers out of the portrait with eyes of mist and a smile of granite and steel. The white rose pinned to his coat shines of poison and vise.

"Car's waiting," Cesara says simply, her voice flat and measured. She sounds like she wants to leave this place, and given how depressed the two of us must look, I don't blame her.

Fading afternoon sunlight blinds me as we walk out of the dark confines of the hall. Wisps of gold linger on the horizon as Thorne and I step into a long, sleek, midnight black car waiting outside. I've never been in one of these before, but as I slouch down on a seat cushion inside the shadowy interior, the last thing I'm thinking about is a car.

The ride towards the train station deprives me of seeing my life one more time. The station's located on the Quarter's side of the river, meaning that warehouses, run-down shanty towns, and towering canneries loom all around. Thorne rests his hand against the window as we pass by. This is his town, his people. I can't imagine what he's thinking as he sees his past for what's likely the last time.

It's only a short drive from the Hall of Law to the train station, where a gleaming silver train of a dozen long, boxy cars hovers an inch off of a slender silver rail.

"Time to go," Cesara sighs.

Cameras flash from a dozen yards away as I step out of the car. I hold up a hand to shield my eyes from the flurry of snaps, but eventually I resign to heading to the train car as fast as possible. Thorne's right on my tail. Apparently, neither of us are interested in being photographed.

We have to pose once on the steps of the car, but after that, I'm happy to leave the Capitol's cameramen behind.

I step into the train car, but I don't notice the opulence of the interior at first. No, what I first see are District 10's two victors, focused in on a card game on a glass-inlaid table rather than waiting for us.

"You cheatin' ass!" Austin throws his cards on the table and stands up with a wry grin. He sets down a glass half-full of some violet liquid next to him, and given the exuberance of his expressions, I assume it's some kind of liquor.

"How's that cheatin'?" Cal replies. I've rarely ever heard him speak before – only on presentations during the Hunger Games in the past. His voice is thick and dark, like a cow's lowing out on the prairie, but it has a sweetness to it. It's not vicious or bloodthirsty, despite his intimidating size and muscles.

Austin throws up his hands and says, "You had that twelve of water two hands ago! Hell, I had that card three hands ago!"

"You're the one dealin'."

"Nah. You're taking all my money."

"Charity."

Both of them glance up at the same time and notice us. Austin swigs half of his remaining drink and looks away, but Cal stares straight at Thorne and I. He narrows his eyes as if trying to size us up. I get a bad vibe from him.

"You done?" Cesara asks in a bitter tone. I get the feeling she doesn't agree much with these two.

"Maybe," Austin replies. "Either of you two play five-card flop?"

I look over at Thorne, who shrugs and glances around nervously. I can only shake my head.

"Bullshit," Austin points at me. "Your dad does."

"I don't…" I stutter, freezing up. "I…"

Cesara coughs loudly and says, "Why don't you go leave us alone while we talk, Austin?"

"Yeah, that's a great idea. You got to be a bad mood all the time, huh Cesara?"

"I'm doing my job. Do I come down and play with barnyard animals and tell you how to do yours? No."

"Cesara," Cal grunts. He hasn't moved since he first looked our way. "Why don't you go with Austin and leave me alone with these two, huh?"

She grumbles, but apparently Cal's word is the law. Austin leads her out through a shimmering silver door on the right as the two fire mumbled insults at each other.

The door slams and we're left alone with Cal. I finally get the time to look around at our surroundings, and I'm shocked by the grandiosity. A chandelier glitters from the ceiling with a thousand fireflies embedded in crystal and silver. The couch Cal sits on must be made of dark leather, and it shines with a bright sheen. Strange oval pastries filled with orange, crimson, and white creams pile atop a silver platter on the table like boulders on a polished mountain.

"Better off not eating that," Cal says, seeing me eying the tray. "It's almost seven. Dinner's in thirty minutes."

For the first time, I hear Thorne speak up. His voice is thin and raspy, high-pitched and juvenile. He sounds like a boy thrown into his worst nightmares. "What's…what's next?" he asks tentatively. "Are we supposed to, um…"

"Take it easy," Cal says, holding up a hand. I start to feel bad about my first impressions of the man. Cal doesn't sound anywhere near as crass as Austin, and, frankly, he might be the better mentor of the two, despite the chilly, somewhat aloof demeanor I interpret from him. "If you rush into everything you'll just get confused. Sit down. The train's gonna get goin', anyway."

Thorne and I sit on the couch Austin had parked himself on earlier, but we put as much distance as we can between each other. I feel bad for the boy, but I have no idea what's going through his mind. He might see me as a threat, as a friend, as something evil from the ranching wards…I don't even know. Like Cal said, I'd better take it slow.

Cal turns to me and lays his hat on the ground next to him. His hair's a mess, but his eyes are bright and star-like when he asks, "First off, do you know Austin?"

I shake my head quickly. "No. I talked to him once at a bonfire, but that was eight months ago, and –"

"You don't gotta explain," Cal leans back in his chair. "He gets around in the district. Just wanted to see. There're two of us and two of you, and it's best if we give you as much one-on-one time as possible. Just wanted to see if you had a connection."

Thorne looks over at me nervously as Cal goes on. "You're dad's a milk factory worker?" he asks Thorne.

The boy looks up at him with cautious eyes. "How'd you know that?"

"Capitol database," Cal replies smoothly. "What d'you think about the Games? All this?"

This isn't what I expected our first meeting to go like. I expected strategic advice, weapons training, something to give us an edge. Instead, Cal seems content to debate philosophy. Thorne doesn't look comfortable either, merely replying, "It's…I dunno, just the Games. They happen every year."

"I don't need the politically correct version," Cal says gruffly, getting up and walking to the window. The train lurches under us, and I see the fields outside start to move.

Cal strokes his chin as the prairie begins to zip past, faster and faster, green and yellow mixing in a giant kaleidoscope of color. Something about the man speaks of pain, of loss, of something in his past that still burns deep down.

"You two are in the Hunger Games now," Cal says quietly. "One of you, at least, is on a one-way trip. I can't put that any nicer, because it's true. There's no reason to hide anything. The Capitol can't do anything more than what they've already done to you. So if you've got something to say, or if you're feeling anything, don't just bottle it up. There's no point to that anymore. It'll just hurt you in the end."

Something boils up in me from deep down. I don't know why I say it, but I do: "Do we have to kill people in this?"

Stupid question. It's the Hunger Games, _that's the point!_ But Cal doesn't look at me like I've said something dumb. He turns around, furrows his eyebrows, and crosses his arms.

"Theoretically, no," he says. "But if you really wanna come home? That's probably what's gonna happen. Sometimes it comes down to you or the other person. You just have to live with it."

I look away. If it comes down to it, can I plunge a knife or a spear into Thorne, who sits just a foot away from me? Can I look him in the eyes as he dies?

"You want some truth?" Cal says before either of us can ask another question. "The Games suck. They're a poor means of control. They just piss everyone in the districts off and entertain the Capitol for a few weeks. President Snow's just setting things up for disaster if he keeps it up. No one likes these things."

I look back at him, wide-eyed. I can get away with a lot over in the Ranching Yard, but I'd never say that kind of opinion about the Capitol and the Games. It's taboo, restricted. Yet here's Cal, speaking his mind as if he's off in the wilderness and thousands of miles away from the Capitol, rather than riding their train.

"There, I said it," he goes on. "I'm a victor. You two are tributes. Speak your mind. Forget playing nice, except when it's going to help you out, like during interviews or training. I've been doing this since '41, and I've watched everyone but one kid – one – die. That one was accusing me of cheating at cards, too, so I'm not sure he really counts."

Thorne finally speaks up: "Is there something I can do to make the odds better?"

Something about the way he uses "I" instead of "we" strikes me the wrong way, but Cal only laughs. "The odds?" he says. "You don't learn much in three days of training, Thorne. The odds don't mean much anymore. This isn't so much about what you're trained to do – as much as the volunteer districts would like to believe – but what you can do under pressure."

"Then how do they keep winning?" I blurt out.

"They were good under pressure," Cal replies quickly. He pulls out a long wooden pipe filled with some black material and the end and lights it with a match. "Finnick Odair could look good even when the whole nation was staring at him. Enobaria didn't crack under pressure, but out-fought her opposition – even when outnumbered as the volunteer group broke up. Persephone last year manipulated people who really should have known better. She kept her wits, they didn't. That's what matters."

"If you panic at the Cornucopia," he goes on, puffing at a long string of smoke from the pipe. It smells sickeningly sweet. That's not tobacco in there. "Or if you freeze up the first time you see a mutt, or if the volunteers from 1 make you turn into a statue, you're done for. Think on your feet, and you're gold. That's what Austin did. Not every kid can do that. Not every volunteer can, either."

"How'd you do it?" I ask.

Cal laughs, inhales deeply from the pipe, and strokes his chin: "Gonna be truthful, right? There was no one I had to look good for. I got no family, Summer. No reason to panic. Pick the thoughts of anybody at home caring about you out of your head. They're gone now. Behind. They're back in that district we left. They ain't with you now. That ain't nice, but it's the truth, and it's what you have to accept if you're going to keep your cool and accept that this is about fighting for nothing but survival."

He steps up and takes a long drag on his pipe before glancing down at us. "I'll show you to your rooms. Get washed up before dinner, and we'll take a look at the evening recap of the Reapings then. See who's in from across the districts. Keep your eyes open now, both of you. The Games might have started, but the little games are over. This is real."


	4. The Divided District

_**A/N: Shout out to BethanyDee for the ongoing reviews, and big thanks to Radio Free Death! Great critiques are always welcome, and I like getting to know what I can work on to improve and put out a better story here.**_

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"Heard an interesting rumor."

"Yeah? Wuzzat?"

"Someone in the Capitol placed an…unusually large order for Avoxes recently. No purpose. No statement. Just an order with an indefinite delivery date and blanked-out location."

I stand with my ear to the door of the dining car, listening in on a conversation between Cal and Austin. I've made my way back from my shiny bedroom several cars back, dropping my Reaping dress for a plain blue blouse. I'd rather be comfortable than look pretty on this train.

I can't see Austin and Cal where I'm standing through the car door, but I can hear suspicion in Cal's voice as he talks.

"Avoxes?" he says. "Not just Capitol infrastructure? They go through 'em fast enough."

"Nope. They leave records. Traces. Ain't nothin' here but whispers," Austin says.

The conversation stalls as the two victors pick their next words. "What're you thinkin'?" Cal finally pipes up.

"I'm thinkin' they took 'em to the mountain," Austin says quickly. "And I think they're throwing at least some of 'em into the Games with the kids. Except, y'know…not really _Avoxes_ anymore. Or people, for that matter. The audience won't recognize 'em when they're finished doing what they do, and that'd be a great highlight for the Capitol. That, plus getting to test out whatever goes on up there? I think it makes sense."

"Sounds like your imagination at work," Cal says, but there's a dip in his voice as he speaks.

"I don't think so," Austin replies. "Who've won the last seven times in the Games? Volunteers from the Big Three districts. People get bored with the same winners year after year. So they throw in something new, something weird, something that'll make people excited again."

"We can't do nothin' about it right here," Cal says. "Look, just hold on to your suspicions and keep 'em quiet around the kids. We don't need them spouting off whatever you've heard around the Capitol's circles. Those two are spooked enough."

I lean against the wall outside the dining room and try to digest their conversation. Avoxes? The only people in the Games are the tributes. Avoxes aren't anything but servants or slaves, as far as I know. And what mountain is Austin talking about?

I shake my head. I won't figure it out in one quick conversation like that.

"What are you doing?"

I jump. Thorne's standing in the hallway behind me, his eyebrows raised in bewilderment. I must look like an idiot just standing here.

"I'm…getting ready to eat. To eat dinner," I say, stumbling over my words.

He squints his left eye at me. I'm guessing that wasn't very convincing an excuse. "Didn't know that's how you get ready to eat," he says sarcastically.

I shrug and push open the door to the next car. Cesara walks in from the opposite door, rubbing her strange-looking hair with a look of irritation. Austin glances up, rolls his eyes at her, and goes back to reading something on a projection of lights that has sprung up from a small metal tube he holds. It looks as if neon electronic writing is suspended in the air, held still as if with a marionette's strings.

"I don't know why I bother reading the news," Austin says to no one in particular. "It's the same crap every day. 'Group A incensed at Caesar Flickerman's vulgar comments during last night's pre-Games broadcast.' Boo-hoo."

"What'd he say?" Cesara asks in a flat monotone.

"Something about Gloss and Cashmere from District 1 being interchangeable," Austin replies. He clicks a button on the metal tube, and the electronic dots disappear into thin air like ghosts.

Thorne snorts. I take a seat away from my fellow tribute and next to Austin, staring at the table in wide-eyed wonder. Heaps of gold and green pears fill one giant bowl to the brim. Strips of steaming cabbage, kale, and heads of broccoli line a vegetable platter, while flat slices of cheese line up like soldiers alongside two columns of bright, steaming poultry meats. A large orange fish serves as the main meal on a plate of silver. Its mouth hangs open in a yawning grimace, its eyes almost as wide as my own dinner plate. Savory smells tingle my nose, and when I take the first bite of a strange, watery white fruit speckled with black seeds, I'm surprised by a mild, soft sweetness.

"What's that?" Thorne points at a bowl of dark, thick, brown goop.

Cal laughs: "Fish sauce. Get used to it. It's used in…everything?"

"Don't know what you're missin'," Austin chimes in, grabbing the fish sauce bowl and heaping it onto several strips of meat.

"That's what you said when you told me to eat snails," Cal snorts.

I crinkle my nose at that. The thought of eating a snail makes me want to gag.

I won't turn down all this food, however. My family eats well back at home, but not like this. Not with silver and crystal and all the garnishments of luxury. I've never even tried a fish before. Back in District 10, the Peacekeepers allow ranching families like my own to use a little of our stock to feed ourselves and the hands who work our land. I'm used to beef and pork and the tough, hearty vegetables of the plains, not the strange, oblong olives and figs that I eye carefully on my plate.

"It's not going to hurt you," Cesara frowns as I pick over the food, trying to decide what's edible and what's not.

If I look strange, Thorne looks positively mystified. His eyes bulge at the proportions and the strange things in bowls and on plates.

"Look," Cesara says after an awkward silence descends on the table. "Let's see what happened around the other districts and get an idea of what's going on."

I look up at her in surprise as she flicks on a wall-mounted television. Cesara's more tactical than I expected. Most Capitol escorts seen during previous years' Hunger Games broadcasts seemed more caught up in the extravagance of the show, rather than thinking about the competition itself. Cesara, on the other hand, looks to have embraced a pragmatic side.

"Why d'you care?" Thorne speaks up suddenly.

Both victors and Cesara look back at him as if he's fired a shot at them.

"Excuse me?" Cesara asks dangerously, her eyes darkening.

Thorne looks as if he's finally getting everything off of his chest now that there's no doubt we're stuck in the Hunger Games. His cheeks flush, he lays down his utensils, and he says, "You're just an escort. Why care about me? I'm just any old poor kid in the districts, right? You get us every year. You're from the Capitol."

There's that "I" and "me" again. Before I have time to think that over, however, Cesara leans down across the table with far more viciousness than I thought possible from a Capitol citizen.

"Listen to me, boy," she growls. Her hair doesn't look so funny when she's angry, and any shred of sympathy she'd shown disappears. "You shut up and try to win, and I'm happy. It makes me look good, and makes it more likely that I'll actually get promoted and win a few accolades. This job pays well, and I'm damn happy to have it."

"That doesn't –"

"But if you just lie down and play dumb," she cuts him off. "Then I'm not going to waste my time. I don't know what you think about what 'those people in the Capitol' do, but I've got my needs and wants like anyone else. If one of you two wins, it's good for me. So if you're going to just argue about who cares about who, I'll throw my effort behind Summer here."

She points a bony finger towards me. I shrivel up in my chair, wrapping my arms around my chest and staring off at the wall. The last thing I need is to start a divide between Thorne and me before we even get to the Capitol. _Of course, being from opposite sides of the river already did that…_

Cal puts his hand on Thorne's arm to stop any further argument, but the boy doesn't look satisfied. Cesara scowls and flicks on the screen before sitting back down. Austin, to his credit, doesn't seem to think much of her display either: He turns his head towards me, sticks out his jaw, and rolls his eyes back into his head.

Not a good start. I wonder if all the districts have this kind of problem.

Even worse, we've missed a full half of the Reaping recaps by this time. By this time Caesar Flickerman, his hair dyed a gaudy green and his teeth as white as fresh ice, finishes up with a laugh about something that happened in District 7. He's handling the recaps in reverse numerological order, so at least I don't have to see my own performance. I don't think I could watch how I looked.

Caesar's a fixture of the Games' presentation, but he looks like a fit thirty year-old despite his many years of experience. He laughs and jokes with his co-presenter, an aging, squat man named Claudius Templesmith.

"I think we're all used to that from District 7," Caesar's in the midst of saying as Claudius laughs heartily. "Blight, such an entertainer. And we've had him for, what, going on twenty-five years now!"

"Rough bit of luck lately," Claudius gets over his laughing fit and nods. "But he's got one to work with the boy, Mayweather. Tough-looking lad, and a stoic stand on the stage. You have to like how he performs under pressure."

Cal points to the screen as if to say, "See!"

"Well, it's the winners who usually have the best chance at winning," Caesar agrees.

"Amazing piece of analysis," Cesara grunts.

"C'mon now, Flickerman's not bad," Austin says halfway through a bite of something red. "You sit up there with old Claudius forever, your mind would go, too."

Whatever I'm drinking makes me sleepy. My eyes start to flutter as Caesar and Claudius work their way through District 6, and I barely even take note of who the two tributes are. The dry warmth of the dining car, the swaying of the train, and my full belly aren't helping keep me awake.

Someone shakes my shoulder. I blink my eyes quickly and glance over at Cal, who looks at me quizzically. The others haven't even noticed I've started to drowse off, but Cal mouths "You okay?" silently.

I nod and shake it off, mumbling a short apology as I look back at the screen. As Caesar and Claudius move into District 4's recap, however, I snap awake in no time.

District 4's escort calls up a colossal beast of a boy named Ladon Venable. Ladon's muscles show right through the loose shirt he wears, and no one bothers to volunteer for him. Since District 4's one of the volunteer districts, I'm guessing he would have volunteered for anyone else who would have been called, anyway. The off-green of his eyes and his light blonde hair, almost white, make him look alien up there on the stage.

"You see here," Claudius says excitedly. "This is a tough tribute, Caesar. He's got size, he's big, and that should make him bigger than most of the other tributes, I'd think."

Austin laughs in validation.

Ladon's fellow tribute, a lanky and rough-looking girl with curly brown hair named Raidne, eagerly shoves aside some fourteen year-old girl who was picked. She's nowhere near his size, but her zeal to volunteer and compete makes her no less dangerous in my eyes.

"Watch out for those two," Cal says. "District 4's won twice in the last ten games, and they hate to be shown up by 1 and 2. It's all a prestige game with the Big Three districts. I'd guess this Ladon kid and Raidne'll be tough outs."

The other districts fly by. I stay away from the food in order to stay awake and drink as much water as I can. I almost spew water across the table when I see perhaps the plainest tribute to ever come out of District 2, a black-haired boy named Vespasian Velem, volunteer for the district. 2's well-known as one of the best in the Games, and Vespasian, who looks only about half of Ladon's size, hardly seems like the usual behemoths that are cranked out like toys every year.

"He doesn't seem like much," Thorne remarks at Vespasian's volunteering, evidently seeing the same thing I do.

Austin scoffs as he works his way through a third plate of dinner. "So District 2 got a new angle," he says, looking down at his glass of white wine. "Nifty of them."

"I thought they always played tough?" I say.

"They play to win," Austin checks me. "Toughness can get the job done, but so can a buncha other strategies. District 2 doesn't care. I've been there. Life's winners and losers in District 2. You've got the victors, you've got the trainees, and you've got every other guy who toils away in the quarries or trains to be a soldier or Peacekeeper. No middle ground."

My eyes wander over to Thorne. His face is smoldering as Austin carries on about the district, his eyes full of resentment as he stares at the victor. Austin's not well-liked over across the river, especially after becoming popular among the Capitol crowds. He's accused of forgetting where he came from, and given Thorne's expression, it looks like that feeling runs deeply.

I can understand Thorne's feelings on one hand, but on the other: Didn't Austin see the Games as a way to get away from life in the Meatpacking Quarter? If Thorne won, he'd have the same life. Why not celebrate him?

I push the thoughts aside. I won't understand District 10's little nuances here on a Capitol train, especially with Thorne hesitant to bring such things up after Cesara's little tirade earlier.

"Life's winners and losers in a lot of places," Cal mutters quietly. I get the feeling he'll have no problem striking up a connection with Thorne.

"So," I interject as our table's conversation dies down again with Caesar moving on to District 1. "How do we go about training for these guys? You two are both winners, so…"

"Play smart," Austin says without looking down.

"What's that mean?"

Cal chuckles and leans back in his seat. "I don't mind raggin' on him," he says, glancing over at his fellow victor. "But Austin had a particularly good method of matching up against the biggest volunteers in the arena. Worked out well, since he didn't take my advice."

"Your advice was awful," Austin laughs. "All you said was 'stay on the move.' You mighta well said 'Stay alive.'"

"Past is past," Cal says, waving him away with his hand.

"Ignoring him," Austin says with a roll of his eyes and a bite of a piece of bread. "Brains beat brawn nine times out of ten in the arena. If you don't have to get into a fair fight, don't. I hate fair fights."

I narrow my eyes at him: "You killed plenty of tributes, though. They've shown the replays in the past Games sometimes."

"Right," he nods. "And did you ever pay attention to what the other tributes looked like when I fought them?"

"Not really."

"I made sure I had the upper hand each time I squared off," he says. "I found a nest of these crazy cat-bear things and led two idiots from District 6 right into 'em. They both escaped alive, but by the time they found me, they were in bad shape. They weren't tough to knock off."

"You make it sound like you were lightning matches or something, not killing kids," Thorne grumbles from across the table.

"Like I knew 'em. They tried to kill me, so I sure killed them first," Austin says, shrugging his shoulders and setting down his fork. "Look, the way you have to view things like ethics and morality in the Games is with a practical lens. You can't just say some things are bad and others are good, and you'll only stick with the latter. Even Cesara here can agree with me there."

Cesara lifts her hands begrudgingly nods. "It's a contest," she says.

"Yeah, I had two allies in the arena," Austin admits. "But at the end of the day, I was me, they were them. You gotta think logically. Getting caught up with what your heart tells you is a way to get killed by a quick-thinking volunteer like ol' Raidne back from District 4 up there."

"Doesn't mean you have to be barbaric," Cal quickly says, glancing over at a stewing Thorne. "Goes for you, too, Summer. If you can find a couple other kids who you're willing to team up with, do it. Having more than one pair of eyes is makes your chances look a lot better. It means one more person to see what you don't, one more person to catch the things you missed. One little misstep is enough to kill out there when you've got a two-ton mutt running you down."

Cal looks over at me and grabs my forearm. "Plus," he says. "You could use a little muscle in your corner, Summer. You ain't the biggest girl around, and I'm guessing you weren't exactly fighting cows to the death on your ranch."

I look away from Thorne. I don't want to talk about my past in front of him.

"I threw poles through a hoop," I say quietly, recounting the hoop game some of the hands were playing back during the bonfire when I first met Austin.

"Don't discount that," Austin speaks up with a slosh of wine. "I like that game, by the way. But if you were any good at throwing those things, well…they're well-balanced, almost like a javelin. Plus, I'm guessing you got pretty familiar with roping things."

I shrug. Sure, but does he really expect me to lasso a kid from District 1 or something?

"Little things have their uses," Austin says, glancing back at the television screen.

Caesar and Claudius are finishing up on the recap show, with the latter in the midst of saying, "…the outlying districts aren't much competition this year. Betters at home, you're gonna want to be careful taking a gamble on a flier from the likes of District 12."

Yikes. I hope they're not watching.

"So, give us the scoop, Claudius," Caesar says, folding his hand and lowering his head. "Odds-on early favorite. 1? 3?"

"I think you'll have to give a nod to the two from 4 and Miss Erinye Appleby from 2," Claudius answers. "Lotta size there, and looks like a lotta born skill. You can't teach that. You can never pick an outright favorite this early in the game, especially with training and all still coming in, but I'd say keep an eye on the usual leaders. Looks like we're setting up for a heavyweight showdown in the later goings of the Games this year."

"Straight from the mouth of the man who's picked and prodded the Games for thirty years," Caesar says with a winning smile. "That's a wrap here, folks – don't forget, we have a _full_ recast of all twelve Reapings coming up for you next. Don't go _anywhere_ for full twenty-four hour coverage of the Hunger Games as we dive into the big event, right here on Capitol broadcasting! We'll see you back tomorrow at noon for the pre-parade festivities. Here's wishing you a fantastic party long into the night!"

"There you go," Cesara says, clicking off the television screen. "Usual winners look like winners again."

She sighs and slumps down in her chair, reaching for the wine across Austin.

Thorne gets up with a start, pushing his chair back with a loud _creak_. "I'm gonna go to bed," he says, turning and walking out without looking back.

As soon as he's gone, Cal sighs loudly, turns to me, and says, "Summer, why don't you do the same. We need a little private time to talk, just the three of us."

I'm grateful, since I'm feeling drowsy again, but I don't want to miss the conversation either. Still, Cal's words feel less like a suggestion and more like an order. I step back quietly, closing the door behind me, but I don't walk down the hall. Once again, I lean my ear against the door, unseen by my mentors or Cesara, and listen in.

"I'll handle him," Cal's muffled voice says as I press my ear into the glass.

"Boy seems bitter," Cesara remarks. "Another terrible crop. Great."

"Just relax and stick to the organizing part," Cal says. "You're good at that. Play to our strengths."

It sounds like Cesara spits. "Real reassuring," she says.

"Well that was well-mannered of you," Austin says.

"You know, when it's just you two watching, I really don't care about what I look like," Cesara says with scorn in her voice.

Oh boy. I'm left feeling alone again, surrounded by these people and their problems: Thorne with his anger about being Reaped and resentment against the Capitol types like Cesara, Austin and Cesara's feud, and my two mentors' easygoing attitude towards training. I feel like I've barely learned a thing so far, and while Cal's been helpful, it sounds like I won't be seeing him as much as I need if he's going to tackle Thorne's training.

Great. Just great.

I turn around and stub my toe against a steel rut in the wall, holding back a yelp of pain so that nobody in the dining car will know I've been listening in. The sun's just set outside, and through the window I look out at fields of long grasses and squat, fat trees. Everything's so peaceful out there, with the crimson rays of twilight giving a bath of color to the landscape. It feels like home.

Yet here I am, separated by a wall and a window I can't breach. So close, yet so far away.

I sigh. More and more, the Hunger Games are growing a knot of despair in my gut and pushing the reality of this competition in my face. Is this why people in the Quarter hate them? This hopelessness against long odds, this lonely emptiness, this gnawing hunger to be free, so much like a caged animal scratching at the bars?

I want my sister here with me, my friends, someone who I can talk to without reservation. I'd be happy to deal with Holly's mood swings and patronizing for the rest of my life over spending what really might be my final weeks with these people I don't understand and can't relate to. I rub my eyes before a tear leaks down my cheek and I turn away from the window. I can't keep looking out there, out towards wherever home might be.

Somewhere out there is Holly and Plano and Odessa, hoping for me to come home. Somewhere out there is Claudius Templesmith, saying I have no chance.

* * *

_**A/N: I only now have realized that the names "Cesara" and "Caesar" look...strikingly alike. In fact, they have all the same letters. Ah. Apologies for any confusion in the writing. Forethought is a trait I could work on. **_


	5. The Long March

_**A/N: We're gonna start to see a few creative changes come into effect, mostly regarding the appearance of the Capitol. Nothing major just yet, though. Thanks to everyone again for the ongoing readership, it's great to see people enjoying the story!**_

* * *

Weak sunshine filters in through my bedroom's small window when I open my eyes from fitful sleep. Outside the glass, a haze, an unnatural fog, hangs in the early morning sky. I see the sun climbing over the top of snow-capped mountains, but it's little more than a faint, amorphous white blob struggling to break through the loose cloud cover. Yellowing grass flashes alongside the train in scraggly patches, with the occasional thorny shrub and skinny, stick-like tree passing by in the distance.

This is the land of the Capitol? To my eyes, so used to the green prairie meeting the blue sky miles away in the distance, this is a dead world, a wasteland.

A sharp rapping echoes against my door, and I jerk my attention away from the window.

"Yeah?" I say. My voice sounds hoarse, either through apprehension at the day ahead or the meager few hours I was able to sleep.

The door opens to reveal Cesara, who looks even more tired than I feel. Her hair's a mess, a wild blue mane that ends in frazzled curls and stray strands. Dark violet circles highlight her eyes with a dangerous foreboding.

"Get some breakfast to eat," Cesara says with little more than a grunt. "We'll be in the Capitol in a bit."

She turns quickly to leave, but I speak up fast. "This is the Capitol?"

"This?" Cesara laughs harshly as she points towards the window. "No. We have to pass through the mountains first going west."

"Where are we then?"

A strange grin snakes across Cesara's face. "We're just outside District 2," she says. "Enjoy the view. I heard the air's great."

She lets the door close with a loud _thud_ behind her. I'm left with a churning feeling in my gut. What's she mean by that? The odd, almost acidic tone in her voice as she said that makes me think Cesara's been out to District 2 before. But she's just an escort, someone from the Capitol – and not a very highly-ranked escort, either, since she's been handling District 10 for a few years now. Why would she ever venture out here except by train ride every year?

The thought lingers in my head until I step into my bedroom's small, coffin-sized shower quickly. It's only my second shower in my life after the one I took yesterday, but I don't have the time or thought to marvel at the warm water raining down from the ceiling and the walls, or the soaps and shampoos that bubble up with lavender foams and tangy scents. Fears of what will happen when we reach the Capitol infect my mind.

What will I find in Panem's central city? Throngs of people goggling at me like I'm a stillborn calf? Crowds swarming around me, touching me and shouting at me like I'm a prized cut of beef?

I try to get a grip on my concerns by finding the best-looking clothes I can in my bedroom's wardrobe closet, but I'm no fashion expert. My usual attire back home consisted of thick, worn pants and loose-fitting shirts that could keep me cool while protecting me from District 10's long, tough grasses. Deciding between the silky garments in my closet, each silky outfit more a mystery than the last, makes my head swirl in indecision.

Settling on a white sundress, I tie my hair back in a ponytail and step out of my room, only to run face-first into Austin. He looks like he's just come out of a warzone. He sports a baggy shirt that's bunched up around his narrow shoulders, and his face is littered with patchy spots of unshaven hair and specks of grime and food from last night.

"Why's everybody up so early?" he yawns, stretching out his arms from one wall to the other. "Sun's barely up."

"Cesara said we're coming into the Capitol," I say.

Austin grimaces. "Last name I wanted to hear this early," he says.

Mentioning Cesara brings up her remarks about District 2 in my mind again. "Austin," I say. "Is Cesara trying to become District 2's escort? She sounded weird this morning saying we were outside the district. Is that why she's…"

"An annoying swine?" Austin finishes, scratching his underarm. "She'd rather go into the arena than escort District 2, sorry."

"What? Why? She said last night that she wanted to be promoted."

"Yeah, to District 3 or 4, probably," he says. "She was born in District 2. She hates the place."

My eyes bulge. "She _what_? Then why's she –"

"Look, it's a long story," Austin says, trying to get past me towards the lounge car. "Ask sometime later. We gotta get ready for all the fun coming up."

My mentor shoves past and throws open the door with a loud _bang_. When I'm alone, I let that last revelation settle in. Cesara's from District 2? Austin has to be joking. People from District 2 train to be Peacekeepers, not escorts. That district mines stone. It sure doesn't cultivate the types of personalities that make good escorts.

_Then again, Cesara's just so sunny…_

I promise myself I'll ask Austin more some time when we're alone, but he's right: I have more pressing matters to worry about.

Thorne's already in the dining car when I walk in. He's dressed in the plainest brown shirt I can imagine, and when I step inside, he throws a sulky look my way. Somehow, I can't imagine we're going to be partners in the arena.

"Juice stands out on white. Don't spill on that dress," Cal, sitting at the head of the table reading Austin's electronic news rod from last night, tells me without looking up.

Austin does almost exactly that when he knocks over a platter of jellied pastries next to me, but I evade disaster by scooting out of the way in time.

"Nimble," he laughs. "I'm on Capitol time now. Don't blame me."

"Capitol time?" I ask. "Is that when everyone's up until the sunrise?"

"Just about," he says.

That sounds ridiculous. In District 10, there's not much to see late into the night outside of the Ranching Yard except for when the full moon's out. When the moon's hidden, the prairie transforms after sunset from a warm green welcome mat to a dark, foreboding maze of tall grass serenaded by the haunting melody of coyote laughter and owl hoots. I know that the Capitol's a web of electronic and neon lights after dark from the times I've watched it on television during prior Hunger Games, but all those manmade lights are a poor replacement for the warmth of the sun.

Maybe it's just the whole artificial atmosphere that bothers me. Spending every day of my life in the outdoors and around nature and animals and fields has left me feeling apprehensive about standing beneath the Capitol's towers of glass and steel. I wonder how the people who live there ever grow up normally.

Then again, maybe they don't.

Thorne, who's stewed in a bowl of what looks like gray mush, finally glances up and says, "Is that it?"

I look up. As the train pulls out of a dark tunnel, the first gleam of something white in the distance, equal parts grand and ominous, tells me what I see.

The Capitol.

A towering white wall of limestone, a dam, holds back a crystal-clear lake so large it seems an ocean. Columned buildings of silver, gray, and white stretch into the sky for what looks like miles from this distance. Statues of men and women in poses heroic and majestic line wide avenues. Cars like tiny ants drive down them at a leisurely rate, oblivious to our approach, unhindered by our troubles and fears. Slim and quick aerial craft dart about like bees and dragonflies in the sky. Though the haze has remained, the Capitol's splendor couldn't be clearer.

It is a wonderful sight. It is a terrible sight.

Austin glances darkly up towards something far to the train's right. "The mountain," he mutters.

I match his gaze. Atop a snowy peak and just visible through the haze is something with none of the splendor of the grand city below it. A dark spire, like something hewn from a nightmare, looms large. Its wide, circular base makes it look as if it is swallowing the mountain's peak like some creature bred from a forgotten time.

"The Citadel," Cesara says. "The stronghold of the city and home to the military's labs."

"Is that the President's mansion?" Thorne asks. His question seems sarcastic, but by his face, he looks entirely serious.

A shadow crosses Cal's eyes. "No," he says. "There're plenty of secrets in this city. Secrets that we on this train won't ever know. Don't trouble yourself with what happens in the Capitol. Just focus on what you need to do."

"What's that?" Thorne asks.

Cal starts up with an answer, but I can't help but stare up at the mountain peak. That's what Cal and Austin were talking about last night – where Austin thought they were taking Avoxes. For what? To be thrown into the arena, like he thought? I should imagine Cal was right, that Austin was just imagining things, yet I can't get these creeping doubts out of my head.

I come back to the conversation just as Cal's saying, "…so stick to your stylist. Let 'em do what they do. Even if you want to kill 'em by the end of today."

Cal blinks at me and says, "You're not payin' attention, are you?"

"Sure I was," I lie. "You were saying stick with the stylist and all that. I mean, that sounds right."

He sighs, "I guess that'll be enough. We're pulling into the station in five. Tidy up."

Five minutes goes by in a flash. The final tunnel disappears around the train, and the lounge car's thrust into the bright flare of spotlights and cameras. I'm forced to shield my eyes as the train slows to a stop. A horde of people dressed in everything from bright aqua fur to what looks like a moving cow hide wave and scream at Thorne and me, even though the train doors haven't even opened yet.

"There's something depressing about that," Cesara sighs. Is that District 2 speaking from her lips?

The train slows to a stop, I take a deep breath, and the doors open.

A sonic boom hits me with hurricane force. I freeze, paralyzed by the intensity of the crowd and the cameramen shooting a machine gun volley of photographs. I can't even see the station any more, lost in the ocean of lights. I try to smile, but the best I can manage is a frightened grin. When I look over at Thorne, I see overwhelming confusion spreading across his face from his furrowed brow to his skittering eyes.

Cal puts a hand on the small of my back and gently pushes me forward. I do my best to control my breath and measure each step. I'm careful not to trip. My eyes scan the ground for anything in my way, making sure I don't make a complete fool of myself in front of everyone. Even so, the crowd's aura presses in, sucking my breath away and giving rise to a surging feeling of nausea in my stomach.

Next to me, Thorne looks every bit as sick from the spectacle.

One of the cameramen shouts something vulgar about my appearance that I can just make out. I glance over with wide eyes, and in that fraction of a second he snaps at least a dozen photos. I feel naked out here.

"Hey, you degenerates!" one cameraman cries. "Look over here! Yeah!"

This time I shield my eyes and glance down, but Thorne tenses up and stares the man down as the camera flashes.

"Don't," I tell Thorne, grabbing his arm. "He wants that!"

"Get your hand off me!" he hisses in a nasty tone.

Cesara, Austin, and Cal are doing their best to hurry us through, but there's only so fast they can get through the crowds – even with more than a dozen Peacekeepers on hand as well holding back the swarming throng of onlookers clamoring for a glimpse at us.

More than anything else in my short time in the Hunger Games so far, it's this march, this long, slow, degrading slog through the dark pit of humanity, that makes me want to break down and cry.

"Summer!" a cameraman yells, goading me to look his way for an exclusive shot. "Slept with Austin yet?"

I've given up smiling as I spot a waiting sleek dark car about twenty feet ahead. I just want to get away.

A Peacekeeper yanks open the car door and Austin shoves me inside. I scamper across the seats to the far side, huddling against the far door and pulling my knees up to my chest. I burrow my face into my legs as Thorne climbs in as fast as he can, and I don't look up until I hear the car door slam.

I glance up at Cal next to me, my eyes full of tears.

"That's sick!" I scream as the car starts moving. "They're treating us like animals!"

"Summer, it's over," Cal puts a hand on my shoulder.

"I hate them!"

I don't care that Thorne looks shocked at my outburst. I feel violated. I feel like all those people have just pried me open and picked me apart. Tears well up in my eyes again as I lean my head against the car door. I don't even bother to look around at the Capitol. I'm disgusted. I feel disgusting, and that was only my first few steps off of the train.

Cal does something unexpected. He puts an arm around my shoulders and pulls me into a hug, whispering into my ear, "I know. I know, girl. I do too."

I open my eyes and glance up at the towering buildings we pass by. They don't look so glamorous now that I'm right in the middle of this zoo. They're demons, laughing at my pain, relishing in my fright.


	6. Chariots of the Capitol

_**A/N: Big props to Bethanydee. You're awesome for the ongoing reviews! Thanks also to everyone who's been reading faithfully; it's really inspiring to see people taking a look at this story!**_

* * *

"Summer? You alright to go in?"

Cal looks worried as he opens the car door for me. I look up at the huge, flat, white limestone wall of the Remake Center, where Cesara says every district's stylists wait. I've dried my eyes from the incident at the train station, but now I'm facing the horror of whatever awaits me in this imposing building. Thorne's already gone in with Cesara, and now I'm just wasting time.

I'd waste it all, if I could.

"It's, um," Cal stutters, trying to find the right words. "They're not gonna be subtle with you in here either, girl. They're gonna poke and prod and pick all over you for the next several hours. Supposed to make you look pretty for the parade. But it'll help with making a first impression. You gonna be okay?"

I nod, but I don't mean it. I'm still feeling nauseas about what happened, but I'm also embarrassed about how that might look. It's hard to remember that I'm a public face now, that the cameras always are watching me and waiting for some slip-up to highlight in the Hunger Games coverage. I have to be extra-cautious in everything I do.

Cal pats my shoulder and attempts to smile. "Just go on in," he says, shaking his head towards the two blue glass doors in front of us. "You'll be told what to do from then on 'til this evening. Just try to dig deep and get it over with. See you tonight, Summer."

I exhale sharply and walk forward. The doors open up with a loud _swiiiish_, disappearing into the walls and revealing a dim entrance foyer populated by two dark couches and several low glass tables. There's no one waiting for me here. I look back, but Cal's already gone.

What am I supposed to do?

Without warning, the ceiling opens up and reveals a long, thin metal track. A silver fist-sized object rolls across it and emits a high-pitched whine. Like a sunburst, a wide, electronic orange field covers the room, crossing over me before I have a chance to shield myself. It stops once it's passed me by, pausing before disappearing into thin air.

"Summer Glenn," a pleasant male voice speaks from nowhere and everywhere at once. "District 10, age fifteen. Please place your clothing on the center table and dress in the provided garment."

With a puff of air, a circular hole opens up in the floor. Out pops a silver metal table, with what looks like a blue square of paper on it. I hold it up in front of me to reveal a thin paper gown that looks like it'll rip the first time I bend over in it. I sigh and strip down, hoping no one's watching. At least they left me alone in here. The paper gown's ill-fitting and bulky on me, hanging off at weird, sharp angles. It feels alien when I tie the waist cord tight, and its limited protection makes me realize just how cold it is in this place.

"Please proceed through the door," the disembodied voice tells me.

A small door in front of me opens up, and I clutch my gown tightly as I walk forward. It's even colder in a long, wide hallway I enter. Blue running lights illuminate a polished black floor. A sign on the wall to my right reads "male", with the adjacent wall to my left bearing a "female" sign. White doors, each marked with a number from one to twelve, run along each wall.

I guess I'm headed for the one with a ten on the left.

I stumble along barefoot, slightly hunched over to protect my chest and stomach from the chill. Why did the Capitol make it freezing in here? It smells of some strange chemical, and the dry air makes my skin feel raw and ragged. My throat's sore in less than a minute.

I cough and step in front of the door, rubbing a hand up my left arm to ward way goose bumps. It opens on its own, and I'm confronted with three of the strangest-looking people I've ever seen.

To the right of a small, black-walled room stands an inhumanly tall man dressed in a form-fitting red shirt. His head's bald but covered in a tattooed portrait of lines and squiggles, with two eyes inked over his own real eyebrows. A short, young woman stands in the middle of the room in a short dress that comes to her mid-thigh. Her hair's short and spiky, with several violet strands intertwined with each other in the strangest pattern I've ever seen. Finally, a short man beside her wears his skin died in a light shade of teal, his eyebrows completely plucked and replaced with what look like gold visors around his eyes.

"Stop right there!" the short man shouts. "Lemme see – yes, that'll do. Let's get to work, you two!"

He grabs me and pulls me inside without introducing himself. I stammer, but the three stylists – I guess they're stylists, at least – rush around chattering with each other like sparrows. The short man forces me to lie down on a cold steel table and eyes me from head to toe.

"Good enough," he muses. "Take that off."

"What?" I ask.

"That…whatever it is. Take it off."

I hesitate. He wants me naked? In front of all three of them?

"We're not wasting time. Let's go," he says, before turning around and picking up a small bottle of orange solution.

I slowly untie the waist cord and let the paper gown fall to the floor. I shiver and hold my arms across my chest as if that'll protect my modesty, but it's only seconds before the three stylists pull my arms and legs out like I'm a marionette. I close my eyes and try to tell myself that it's normal, but I feel like I'm being attacked. My heart races and I start to sweat, even in the freezing cold of this room.

_Breathe, Summer. Breathe._

If I felt like an animal before, I'm nothing more than a piece of beef now. The stylists quickly dump an entire bottle of mint green _something_ on me that smells like dead leaves. It stings, but it's nothing like the hot burning that covers me from my neck to my toes as another orange electronic beam zaps me. I shriek, and when I look down, I see my skin sizzling.

"What was that?" I gasp.

"Just getting all that hair off you," the woman says, her voice droning like I'm a nuisance. "You're like a monkey."

My jaw twitches uncontrollably. I clamp my eyes shut and brave through the next round. The stylists plug my nose with a clamp and tell me to shut my eyes and mouth. Before I can do much more, they spray something hot over my face. I feel my cheeks flushing, and when they unclamp my nose, all I can smell is burnt rubber.

It goes on for hours. A tub of this, an ounce of that, creams, sprays, water, and things I've never even imagined are thrown at me like candy. I quit trying to resist after what feels like thirty minutes, letting the stylists shove my limbs around and force my head from one side to the other. Calling it degrading would be a compliment. By the time the tall man shrieks and claims he'll run and get someone named "Eunomia," my sense of dignity feels like a faint memory. I'm covered in what looks like brown paint from my shoulders to the soles of my feet at this point, and I still have no idea what I'm supposed to look like for the parade.

"Before she comes in," the short man tells the woman while they wait. "We need to inject her. Eunomia wants the projectors in her."

My spine tenses up. "You what?" I whimper.

"Just a little prick," the man says. "A few of them."

He picks up from a steel table what must be the largest syringe I've ever seen. It's full of some viscous clear liquid. Before I have a chance to protest, he grabs my right arm and thrusts the needle straight into its crook.

"_Aaeeehhh!_" I screech.

"Just a pinprick," the woman scoffs. "Toughen up."

Easy for her to say! It feels like they're jamming cement into my skin.

"Make sure you shower after the parade," the man notes as he digs the needle into my wrist, eliciting another howl of protest from my lungs. "Wouldn't want the adhesive to stay in your skin _too_ long, would we?"

He chuckles like he's making a joke. _Sick bastard_. I'm glad he never told me my name, as it's making him – and all of my stylists – so much easier to hate.

_Jab! Jab! Jab!_ It's like the stylists want to give me a prepper for the Games by stabbing me repeatedly. I'd gladly take a sword to my chest or arrow to my knee at this point rather than be jabbed again by a needle. After what seems like fifty of the needle shots, the tall man runs back in and shouts something I barely can understand. All three stylists hustle out of the room, and I'm left alone on this unforgiving autopsy table.

Forget the cold. My skin feels like it's being cut off.

The door opens again. I take back what I thought earlier: _This_ is the strangest person I've ever seen.

The woman in front of me would be normal if it wasn't for her skin. Her hair's a plain shade of brown, her eyes boring and hazel. She's of average height, and her physical characters are unremarkable.

But the tattoos change everything.

She's entirely naked. A thousand pictures cover her skin, transforming her from a human to a living, walking mosaic. With every muscle twitch, the pictures change. Some show people interacting, talking, and laughing with each shift of her weight. Others show animals I can't even conceive, while others show windy, snowy, and sunny landscapes from what I assume are the other districts. She's like a painting brought to life, an illustrated woman.

"That's it," she says breathlessly, her voice like a violin. "Right there. Stop – don't move! I need to imagine it. _Art_, coming to life tonight."

I freeze up. She's…different? Is this what all stylists are like? Fashion teams never are shown on the telecasts of the games, and this woman – Eunomia, if the tall man's to be believed – is the first encounter I've had with a head stylist of any district in the Games.

She strolls around me, the tattoos moving and shifting as she does so. "Clothes, paint, all the work of idle hands," she says as she picks me apart with her eyes. "_Uninspired _hands! Art comes from inspiration, not derivation."

"Is that why you –" I start, but she cuts me off.

"Not now, girl!" she shouts. "I must be in my zone!"

It's so ridiculous that I'm forced to sneeze as I contain my laughter. It's almost enough to take me away from how much the injections hurt.

"That's it," Eunomia says at last. "Stand up, girl. On your feet."

I get up slowly as Eunomia pulls a box of circular black metal orbs from beneath the metal table carrying the stylists' tools. She removes the first black orb and jams it on one of the injection sites. Over and over again she places the orbs. What's she turning me into?

My stomach groans, and I suddenly realize that I've gone without food since breakfast. What time _is_ it? It feels like this ordeal's taken all day.

"Perfect," Eunomia breathes as she places the last black orb on my right foot. "Evenly spaced. Adjusted by every centimeter. That will do splendidly."

I look down. I'm covered in these tiny black orbs. I look like a Dalmatian.

"What does this have to do with my district?" I ask.

"No questions," Eunomia says sharply. "Art is not to be questioned. It is to be _interpreted_."

This is insane. I'm going to get shot down by every sponsor in the Capitol if I go out on the chariot parade like this! I'm naked, covered in spots…where is the cowgirl outfit or usual attire tributes from District 10 are dressed in? I'd even take looking like a hunk of pork at this point. I hope Holly's not watching tonight, even though I know she will be. She might die of shock at seeing her little sister in the worst get-up in Hunger Games history.

"Come!" Eunomia shouts as if she's leading an army. She ushers me through the door of the room and down the end of the hall, towards the doors marked with a twelve. I'm thankful no other tributes are out here, because apart from the brown paint still covering my skin, I'm totally exposed. There's no hiding my body.

Eunomia points me into an elevator at the end of the hall and slides in next to me.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"The launching garage, of course!" Eunomia snaps, scolding me as if I'm a toddler. "Pherousa already has completed her work on your fellow tribute! It is time!"

What? It's time for the parade already? I've lost track of everything since the day began, but the hours have rushed by like the train I arrived on. I swallow growing apprehension as the elevator plunges lower and lower, sliding down into the building with a soft _woosh_.

"Before we enter," Eunomia says, turning to me with a black brick in her hand. "It's time to reveal your artistic _masterpiece!_"

I don't have time to protest. Eunomia hits a button on the brick, and suddenly I'm bathed in light. Electronic green pastures and blue skies spring to life from every black orb on my body. Cattle, pigs, and horses jump into existence on what used to be my stomach, hovering a centimeter off of my skin as they graze. Ranchers run about my skin and lasso steers as herding dogs chase sheep about the grasslands that have replaced my bare legs.

I haven't been covered in mindless black spots. Eunomia's doused me in a hologram. I'm not a representation of District 10. I _am_ District 10.

"Perfect," Eunomia breathes. "It's _alive_."

I'm too shocked to laugh.

The elevator doors open and I'm plunged into a rushing new world. Twelve chariots and twenty-four white horses stand in a row before me, with children and escorts milling about. It's easy to spot the other tributes, my competitors, in their costumes. I try to hold in the overwhelming feeling that takes over my head, but the feeling of being immersed in the world of the Games is incredible in in its scale.

"What'd you turn her into?"

I recognize Cesara's voice before I see her. My escort rushes up, with an irritated expression on her face.

"I beg your pardon?" Eunomia's face contorts as she squares off with Cesara. The two women are polar opposites. Eunomia's extravagance and artistic looks contrasts remarkably with Cesara's bare skirt and snaking, jagged black tattoos that look less like an illustration and more like war paint.

Cesara scoffs as she grabs my arm. Eunomia screeches – something about "You could run it!" – but Cesara's hardly in the mood.

"This is insanity," she mutters, her voice full of malice. "This better be the last time they hire artists as stylists."

"What –" I start, but Cesara's quick to cut me off.

"Tenth chariot," she points out. "Go meet up with Thorne. Don't wait around."

"Cesara!"

A heavy male voice that sounds like a sledgehammer interjects. I look to my left and see the biggest man I've ever seen striding in our direction. He's bald and wearing a loose red shirt that hangs off of his huge pectoral muscles, but this guy is the definition of intimidating. I don't recognize him at first, but when Cesara speaks, I know exactly who's coming our way.

"Brutus!" Cesara exclaims. "Great to see you. Been a while."

_Brutus_? The District 2 victor? It's confirmed: Austin must be right. Cesara's no Capitol product.

"A long time since the Academy," Brutus laughs and grabs Cesara's arm in a rough handshake. "Always thought I'd see you on one of these chariots."

"Life's got a way of being weird," Cesara laughs. "Why isn't Achilles here?"

"He is, with Enobaria," Brutus says. "But he's off fraternizing this year. Enobaria's handling our boy. I'm training our girl, Erinye. You seen her? A piece of work. She was my protégé."

"Not your best, of course," Cesara says with a wry smile.

This is too messed up. I hurry towards my chariot as I glance back at Cesara and Brutus hamming it up like old friends. Can I even trust my escort? She seems perfectly at home with District 2's most famous victor. Brutus, the bloodthirsty winner of so many years ago, talking to Cesara like she's an old friend.

Why's she an escort? Why, when Brutus said he expected her to be on the chariots with tributes like me?

Consumed in my thoughts, I slam right into a boy in front of me.

"Whoa," the boy says, backing off and rubbing his shoulder. "Don't start attacking me too early."

I rub my nose and look up. The boy I've run into is tall – much taller than me, and taller than Thorne by a mile. His blonde hair's combed back to give way to the leaves and bark attached at odd angles all over him from head to toe. Still, his green eyes stick out despite the odd costume, and I have no doubt where he's from: District 7.

"Sorry," I mutter. "Wasn't paying attention."

"Eager to get going?" he says, stepping in front of me to stop me from moving past. "I've been waiting around for a half-hour. I think I've talked with half the districts by this point."

Wait a minute. I remember this boy from the recaps – not his face, but from what Claudius said about him.

"Hey," I said, sticking my finger out. "You're…Mayweather? The guy on the TV, Claudius, said you were 'stoic.'"

The boy laughs uproariously and shakes his head, saying, "What a liar! But Mayweather's my last name. I'm Acton. I almost pissed myself at the Reaping."

I can certainly see why Claudius called him "tough-looking." Acton's biceps bulge through his costume, and his shoulders look like boulders. I don't doubt that he's had experience chopping wood, or however they make paper and other products from trees in the northernmost district of Panem.

"Is this…uh…what's this supposed to be?" Acton waves his hand at me. "You're part of the green-and-blue district? I don't have a clue what this is. Is that District 13?"

I feel my cheeks grow hot. "I dunno. It's supposed to be District 10. I just want to get through this. I'm Summer, by the way."

"There we go! My first guess was District 10! And I was going to guess your name was Summer, of course!" he says, his eyes lighting up. "I'll be honest with you. I've never eaten a cow in my life. Do they moo when you eat them?"

"No!" I say with a laugh. "They're steak. Or beef. Or milk. You don't just bite a cow."

"Ah. I'm a culinary newbie," he says with a shrug. "Along with just about everything else. I was talking with that girl from District 12, Lily, and I mentioned that coal turns into peals. She looked at me like I was diseased."

I glance over towards the last chariot. A short boy stands next to a small girl with brown hair and brown eyes, each covered in black dust and looking depressed. I guess District 12 didn't get much in terms of stylists.

"I don't think coal turns into pearls," I say.

"Well, mineralogy's not my specialty, either," Acton shrugs.

"Then what is?"

"Well…one time I punched a tree and almost broke my hand," he says with raised eyebrows. "There's a lesson in there, but beats me what it is. My hand hurt."

I giggle and shake my head: "Is that what you've been telling everybody?"

"Nah. I've made up a new story for everyone who's asked," Acton says. "We're all stuck here. Why not be funny? At least you're talkative. I was trying to chat up that guy from District 3 and he wasn't having anything."

I look over towards the front of the line of chariots. The boy from 3 – I remember his name from the recap, Morse – looks as if he thinks someone's coming to kill him right now. He's short, but for someone from technology-inclined District 3, he looks tough, with broad shoulders and a stout, square-jawed face.

"He was probably just scared of your weird way of introductions," I say.

"Yeah?" Acton asks. "Hasn't scared you off."

"You're the first person since this morning who hasn't made me take all my clothes off. So, yeah, not too scared," I retort.

Acton laughs, scrunching up his eyes as he does so: "Oh, when you say it like that…"

"Terrible!" I screech, jumping away from his probing hand.

Acton's a funny guy, I have to admit. I want to like him, but a sudden thought hits me. In less than a week, he'll be my enemy. He'll be trying to kill me, just like everyone else here. I bet Acton has a family of his own, parents and siblings he wants to return to. I'm just an obstacle in his way.

_Don't trust the funny boy in the bark and leaves, Summer._

"I should go," I say, looking towards my chariot, where Thorne waits dressed in a hologram matching my own. "We'll be going soon."

"Hardly, c'mon," Acton protests. "I've been here forever. We haven't so much as had an appetizer."

No. I can't let him get to me. I smile nervously and walk off, my stomach churning as I stroll towards the District 10 chariot with my head down. The two white horses hitched to the vehicle snort at me as if they sense my anxiety.

"Like our competition?" Thorne mutters as I step up to our chariot.

"He talked to me," I defend myself.

"Look," Thorne says, shifting nervously. "I thought you were like all these Capitol people. I saw your clothes for the Reaping. I know you're from the Yard and the ranches. But after the train pulled into the station, I saw that they don't treat you any differently from me. I…mighta been wrong about you."

I look up at Thorne. Sure, he's from across the river. I don't sympathize with those people. They might as well be from another district entirely, and Thorne's hardly been civil with anyone but Cal so far. But maybe I've been too quick to judge. I'm scared of what's ahead, and maybe he's just like me.

Maybe I should give him another chance.

"It's okay," I say, looking down at my hologrammed feet. "We're all messed up. I bet the kids from District 1 don't feel that great, either."

Thorne shifts uncomfortably. "Can we start again?" he asks.

"Sure," I say with a nod and smile. "Sure."

He gives me a nervous smile, and I grab his hand with a squeeze. He's from District 10, just like me. We shouldn't be fighting. If anything, he's the closest thing to an ally as I have in the Hunger Games.

Closer than Acton, anyway.

I step up onto our chariot to get a feel of the vehicle. It makes me feel important, like I'm some visiting dignitary. I take the time to glance around the garage while I'm up here, scoping out the other kids.

The two from District 1 – Hector and Myrina, if I remember right - are classic tributes from the luxury district. Each is dressed in a hologram like Thorne and I, but theirs reflects an amorphous, shifting design of precious stones and gems. It's when I glance at District 2 that I get my first dose of Hunger Games reality.

Both of the tributes from District 2 wear suits of gleaming golden battle armor. The boy, Vespasian, looks formidable despite his slender build. He's thin for a tribute from District 2, but there's something about the way he carries himself that strikes me as odd. With his dark red hair and bright blue eyes, I tell myself to keep an eye on him in training. He doesn't look like a standard tribute from District, unlike his partner. The girl, Erinye – as Brutus mentioned to Cesara – looks absolutely lethal. She's almost as big as the boy Hector from District 1, with massive shoulders and a bulging neck. Her blonde hair's put up in a ponytail behind her war helmet, and her face reeks of a cold venom towards everyone in this massive, high-ceilinged garage.

The District 4 tributes don't look any more dangerous. I remember Claudius mentioning them as favorites, and I can see why. The rough-looking girl, Raidne, has her hair tied back in a tight braid, and she's muscular. She's talking with the boy from District 4, Ladon, who's even bigger in person than he looked on the screen. His white-blonde hair contrasts sharply with the sparkling, scaled fish-suit he wears, and if it wasn't for his costume, I'd assume he was from District 2, given his muscles and build.

Oh boy.

A loud creak echoes through the garage as the doors start to open. Tributes rush to their chariots with escorts tagging along behind them. Thorne climbs in next to me as Cesara pulls up beside us.

"I –" Cesara starts. "Don't screw up."

How reassuring of her.

I tremble on the chariot as the doors slowly widen. A blast of light hits us inside the garage, a boom of noise following it.

"Okay?" Thorne asks me, glancing my way.

I shake my head, trying to hold in my nerves. This is it. This is the parade, my first real chance to make an impression to the nation. Holly, Odessa, Plano, my parents – they'll all see me for the first time.

"They're the Capitol," Thorne says, leaning towards me. "They're pathetic. They're rooting for us to die."

Somehow, Thorne's caustic words don't help.

Our horses lurch forward as District 1's chariot emerges into the spotlight. A boom like a thousand cattle stampedes resounds in the garage, and I have to cover my ears with my hands to bear. Slowly, surely, we move forward as district after district rolls out onto the Avenue of the Tributes.

_Boom_!

The blast of the crowd smacks me as our chariot moves out of the garage and out into the open air. Gold and crimson fireworks tuned to the Capitol's designated colors of our district stream out across the sky. The booming roar of recently-passed hovercraft making an aerial fly-by stings my ears. It's an overwhelming experience.

I do my best to smile, glancing up at the pictures of me that line the avenue. I look like some other girl entirely. Whatever the stylists sprayed on my face, it makes me look dark and sultry. I'm no girl from the Ranching Yard, but some hardened tribute ready to get the Games underway.

Three chariots ahead, I can see Acton waving to the crowd like he's enjoying the moment. How does it come so easy for him? All I can do is grin and pretend like I'm having fun.

"This is so screwed up," Thorne says beside me.

"I think it's supposed to be fun," I answer, waving to a group of brightly-dressed people screaming for District 9. "Beats me how."

"Exactly," he says. He's not even trying to smile.

On and on we go, passing the packed stands of Capitol onlookers. Towering Capitol skyscrapers loom in the distance, lit up with so many lights that I can't even see the stars. The air's choking with smoke from the fireworks and hovercraft, and all I can smell is brimstone.

We roll up to the City Circle, where high above on a suspended platform stand two men. The one to the right's dressed in all white, with short-cropped black hair and a thin, tight grin. The other, a massive man with shoulders like a horse, doesn't even attempt to look pleased by the presentation. He scowls down at us, and his all-black attire makes him look demonic from down here.

Our horses pull into the Circle, and finally, I see him. President Snow.

The President's growing older with each passing year. His hair's fully white by now, and his beard's grown out of control. He looks feeble next to the men on his left and right, despite his impressive violet suit and the white rose on his lapel. When he speaks, his voice sounds confident but reserved.

"Another year!" Snow booms. "Another year of the Hunger Games! Welcome to the Capitol, tributes, and a hearty welcome to everyone watching from all corners of Panem!"

The man in black sneers as Snow speaks. Whoever he is, he doesn't like the concept of all the corners of Panem.

"Lest I forget!" Snow says, his voice like a jackhammer through the speakers arranged along the avenue. "May the odds be ever in your favor, tributes!"

The crowd roars with his words, and our horses pull us forward. I see my own image shown up on the screens around the avenue one more time before our chariot rides forward into the giant garage in front of us. This cavernous, silver-walled space is the bottom floor of the Training Center, the space I'll call home until the Games begin. I glance back at the street, getting my last taste of fresh air before Thorne and I enter the garage.

Cesara's rushing up to us before I can collect my bearings.

"Good stuff. Let's go," she says, ushering us down from the chariot. "Up to our floor. C'mon."

I glance around as Cesara pulls me off the chariot. The two kids from District 4 look like they're relishing in the moment, but Vespasian from District 2 doesn't look pleased at all. In fact, he looks bored.

What kind of volunteer is he?

"Summer?" Cesara calls my name, glancing back and looking irritated. "Coming?"

I nod and walk forward. The introductions are over. The competition's begun.


	7. Blending In

It's a strange thing, waking up in the Capitol and knowing you're a week away from entering the arena. My bedroom looks bleak and barren in the white alpine sun that pours in through the floor-to-ceiling window of this room. Evening revelers trudge back towards their apartments and homes on the street like weary bugs from up here on the tenth floor of the Training Center. The towers of the Capitol, the winding, spiraling, undulating spires that streak towards the sky, cast long, ominous shadows across the wide avenues of the central city here in the early hours of the day.

There's none of the magic or the romance of morning that there is in District 10, when the sun pours rays of gold across the dew-covered fields. Morning here brings a sense of detachment, like this world isn't real. It feels sterile and inhuman to eyes like mine that nature and the outdoors have trained for a lifetime. Even the snow-capped mountains around the city look lifeless, as if some Hunger Games Gamesmaker has dumped flour atop a cluster of tall rocks for visual effect.

I rub my eyes and push off the thin white blankets of my massive bed. It's larger than any bed I've ever seen in my life, let alone slept in, and part of me doesn't want to get up.

I don't have a choice, however. Today's day one of training, the first day I get to see what the other tributes are made of. I have to be awake.

After running through a much larger shower than the one I had on the train, I toss on a simple brown t-shirt and walk out into the hall of the tenth floor suite. It's quiet. I can hear Cal snoring in a room down the hall, and Thorne's door is closed. The nighttime white running lights still hum along the thin hallway. It's likely I've still got a few hours to kill before I have to report down to the basement training center.

When I walk out into the main floor, however, I see I'm not the only one up.

Austin stands out in the middle of the living room between two crimson plush couches. He pulls a heavy black vest over his chest, oblivious that I'm watching from the hall, and pulls out a long, thin gold sleeve from a mesh bag. The sleeve ends in a silky glove that sparkles with electronic dots, and when Austin pulls it over his left arm, it's a perfect fit.

"What's that?" I pipe up.

Austin spins around like someone's fired a bullet at him. His eyebrows narrow as he sees me, and a crease forms up on his forehead.

"Up early," he mutters, tossing the bag under one of the couches. "Why don't you get more sleep?"

I shrug. "I already showered and I'm not tired anymore. Besides, you're up early, too."

"Yeah, and I'm not training for the arena," Austin says, pulling a long, slender, glistening black tube off of his belt, hitting a switch on it, and placing it back on his waist.

"Then what are you doing?"

"Going out."

I look out the window at the empty streets. The Capitol doesn't wake up here this early. Where's he going?

"You're getting sponsors now?" I ask. "Who's awake? Besides us, I mean."

"Didn't say I was getting sponsors. I said I was going out."

"Where, then?"

"You always pry this much?" Austin asks with a note of poison in his words. "I have things to do. Things that you, hopefully, won't ever know about. I'll be working sponsors later today, when you're in your afternoon training session. I've got a life, too, Summer. I've got my own commitments."

I stare after him as he walks over to the elevator. Austin pauses before glancing back over his shoulder at me, saying, "See if you can make some friends today down at training. If not, at least talk to the others. Better to know your enemy than not. I'll see you tonight, Summer."

The elevator arrives and he's gone. I rub my arm and slump down on one of the couches, staring blankly at the empty black television screen in the center of the living room. I'm starting to worry about Austin as a mentor, especially if he's going to be the one primarily responsible for me. In many ways, it seems like he's disconnected himself off from the Games entirely. From back at the bonfire months ago when he regarded killing as just any other act – like hitting a hammer against a nail, really – to his on-and-off humor to the standoffish way he carries himself at times, like just now, Austin's a man with a lot of other things going on in his life and his mind besides just mentoring.

Where do I fit in in that?

Cesara walks into the dining room fifteen minutes later, rubbing her eyes and still dressed in a loose nightgown. She looks even more tired than back during the Reaping. Her hair's a mess, as it often seems to be in private, and her eyes sag beneath the weight of the dark circles below them.

"Morning person?" she says with a loud yawn when she sees me. "Eh, I used to be, too."

I'm tempted to pry, just as Austin accused me of doing. I want to know more about what he said about Cesara. Is she really from District 2? How does she know Brutus so well?

Then I remind myself that I have to be careful with her. If she _is_ from the stone-quarrying district, she might see me as nothing more than just another wimpy girl from Panem's outskirts. I need to tread carefully around her, and probing into her backstory won't do me well.

"Austin left," I say, picking a safe topic to reply with. "He went down about fifteen minutes ago."

"Austin, hmm," Cesara says. She reaches into a crevice in the curved blue walls of the dining room and punches a glowing red button. A steaming cup shoots out of nowhere into her hand, queried up as if by magic. By the smell that wafts into the den, it's coffee.

"Does he usually do that?" I ask.

Cesara walks into the living room and slouches down in the couch opposite from me, placing her feet up on a nearby stool. "Watch yourself around him," she says, sipping the cup and eyeing me at the same time. "He sounds like he's taken a liking to you, but he's not a normal mentor. Or victor."

"What's that mean?"

Cesara quietly laughs, "Seems like every victor's addicted to something. Look at Cal. You think he's smoking tobacco in that pipe of his? It's opium. There're a pair from District 6 strung out on morphling. District 12's Haymitch Abernathy's a dead drunk. Several from District 1 and 2 are high on violence. Austin, well, he's just gone the other way. The man's addicted to power and status, and he's made a nice name for himself here in the Capitol. Watch what you ask him."

I shuffle back into the couch and pull my knees up to my chest. "He said he knew the President," I say. "He said that when I first met him almost a year ago."

"He's not lying," she says, sipping her coffee again. "I think he likes the Games. They've made him wealthy and well-known. What does he care about whoever dies, so long as he gets his?"

Cesara stares out the window. I wonder who she's talking to. Is she speaking to me, as escort to tribute? Or is she speaking to something in her past, something she lost but still clings to? Something in her vacant eyes reflects a misty longing, like an old man watching his grandchildren play.

Suddenly, it hits me. Is she bitter towards Austin…or jealous?

"Stick to Cal," Cesara says, draining her coffee and standing up to refill her cup. "If you want honest advice and mentoring, that is. Cal's broken, but he's truthful about it."

She's right about that. Cal's the only one of our little band in District 10 that I feel I can trust, even though Thorne wants to start over with me. Cal's at least supported me, and I think he understands what I feel. I can't ask for anything more than that. It's more than Cesara and Austin have given me, at least.

Cal and Thorne file in over the next hour, both looking tired and hungry. My stomach rumbles as I watch the sun creep up in the sky and bathe the Capitol streets in light. By the time a pair of Avoxes bring out breakfast, I'm bored and almost itching for training to begin.

I settle down at the table and start loading pastries onto my plate. There's a small, round, breaded thing that I've come to love. It's filled with a creamy red inside, and when I bite into it, my taste buds indulge in the explosion of strawberries that fill every corner of my mouth. It's biting into bliss.

"You can at least try to eat healthy," Cal says, pushing a bowl of strawberries in front of me. "Otherwise, you'll be throwin' up pastry all over the basement floor today. Those things are rocks in your gut."

I mumble my thanks and stuff some of the fruit in my mouth. Whatever.

"Where's Austin?" Thorne speaks up after a long pause in the table's conversation.

"Out," mutters Cesara, staring at her bowl of goopy oatmeal. It looks like horse slop.

"Out?"

"Yup. Out."

I look to Cal and interject before this conversation can get awkward, asking, "What are we supposed to do today down at training?"

Cal puts down the slice of bread he's halfway through and looks thoughtfully at the table. "Well," he says. "Do either of you have a plan you're sticking to right now?"

I shrug and look at Thorne. He looks just as indecisive as me.

"Yeah, that's normal," Cal says. "Learn something new. Whoever's proctoring down there will say that kids always die of dehydration and infection and stuff, but take it from me: The audience hates that. The Gamesmakers are makin' damn sure that there's enough food and water in the arena. Learn how to use a weapon. Learn how to tie a knot, although Summer, I figure you're already good on that if you're from the ranching families. Just learn. Don't get too crazy. Ya don't need to show off."

It's not long before it's time to go down. I change my outfit for a tight-fitting red-and-gold jumpsuit with the number ten stitched onto the front just above my stomach. The fabric's tight, shiny, and feels sticky on my skin, and when I run my hand along my upper arm, it feels slippery to the touch. Time to go to work.

Thorne and I board the elevator, and with a _whoosh_, we're shot down a dozen floors in mere seconds. The doors open up to an intimidating sight.

An expansive concrete hall greets us. A hundred man-sized blue dummies wait around several racks of weapons that bear everything from long, cruel spears with broad points to slender, elegant, curved swords. Other points around the room are home to obstacle courses of high black blocks, descending ropes that lead to a ladder-like crawl across the ceiling, and even one station that seems to entice tributes with buckets of paint.

It's beyond me what that's for, but I'm intrigued.

Twelve other tributes already stand around a center stool. None of them are the trained volunteers, and I see district numbers that range from three to twelve standing about. Acton's not here yet, either. I don't know why I'm thinking about him. No doubt he's trouble. After all, Claudius Templesmith praised his potential, didn't he?

_Be careful today, Summer_.

The elevator closes behind Thorne and I, rushes up, and deposits another set of tributes in less than a minute. I don't even have to turn around to know that the volunteers are filing in.

"What's up here?" a loud, low voice calls behind me. "Buncha standin' around, heh?"

I glance over my shoulder. Ladon from District 4 saunters in, dressed in an aqua-and-blue jumpsuit just like mine. His muscles bulge through the fabric like boulders. He looks amused by all of us, his eyebrows raised comically as if we're beneath him. Raidne follows right behind him, her hair swishing over her shoulder in perfect rhythm.

Ladon saunters up beside a short, plain-looking boy from District 5, who scratches his neck and shuffles over to his right.

"Get your appendage out of my face, man," Ladon waves him off. "I don't wanna smell whatever muck you've bathed in this early."

I'm taken aback by his brashness and callousness. I'd always thought of the District 4 volunteers as the nicer trainees among the Big Three districts. So much for that, if Ladon's any example.

Raidne giggles at Ladon's brutish attitude, but her laugh isn't any girlish chuckle. It's something sinister, something dark, as if there's a poison behind it.

"Ay!" Ladon turns around as the elevator deposits two more tributes. "You're late, ya' suckers!"

"I don't do late," a dark, thick voice pipes up.

District 2's contingent walks forward, and the speaker, Vespasian, doesn't look pleased at all to see Ladon. He's less imposing than he was last night at the chariot parade, but Vespasian's hardly the model of a District 2 tribute, just as I thought during the recap on the train. He's thin and wiry, but even so, he doesn't look intimidated in the slightest by Ladon's size or smugness. The girl with him – Erinye, Brutus's protégé – glances at Ladon with darkened eyes of shadow and soot. She appraises the two from District 4 like they're trash.

Is there something between these two normally close districts this year?

"Maybe you should show up earlier, then," Ladon laughs heartily.

"Or maybe they're not starting until everyone's down here," Vespasian says without the slightest hint of humor. His eyes are cold, dead things, his mouth tight and zipped-up in a cougar's grimace. "If you'll excuse me, I like a little quiet in my mornings."

Ladon mutters something beneath his breath. I tell myself to watch the volunteers during today's proceedings. There's a rift there for sure between the boys from Districts 4 and 2.

The remaining tributes file in over the next ten minutes. Predictably, Acton's dead last, coming in dressed in a green-and-brown jumpsuit and scratching his underarm. He winks at a blonde-haired girl from District 9 as he walks up into the circle of tributes, eliciting a nervous chuckle from the girl.

What a great guy. _Psh_.

The gymnasium's head trainer, a thin, dark-skinned woman named Atala, walks up and takes a position atop the stool in the midst of our circle. She goes on about the normal rules for five minutes – no attacking each other and whatnot – but I'm hardly listening. I'm much more interested in checking out the other tributes. They're my competition, as Austin said. As skeptical as I am of my mysterious mentor, I can't help but heed his advice. Aren't they the enemy? After all, for them to go home, I have to be dead.

I don't intend on letting that happen.

Atala lets us go, and I immediately head off to the station with all the paints. I'm interested to know what in the arena requires artistic skill. It probably isn't helpful, but my curiosity's getting the better of me.

The short, brown-haired girl from District 12, the one Acton said had looked at him as if he was "diseased," heads towards the same station. She's dressed in a black-and-red jumpsuit just like mine – standard colors for a coal-mining district, I guess – but there's something sad about her brown, cow-like eyes. They look tired, exhausted, as if she's just going through the motions here in the gymnasium.

"I have customers! Thank the President!" a tall man with lime green hair who's working at the trainer of this station says as the two of us approach. "Thought I'd be picking my fingernails all day. So, you girls want to learn how to camouflage yourselves, yeah? Underappreciated skill right here. Sometimes, it's best to run, hide, and live to fight another day. Not like those baboons over there swinging at dummies with axes."

I look over at the axe station. Acton and Hector, the glamorous-looking, bronze-skinned boy from District 1, are having their way with a multitude of dummies. Acton wields a pair of short, study tomahawks, while Hector's carrying the biggest axe I've ever seen in my life. It's almost as tall as him, and I bet the wicked, curved blade on its end would cleave me in two in one blow.

"No subtlety in that. All hack-and-slash," our trainer scoffs. "Well, you can hack a mutt, and it still might kill you faster than you can say, 'Don't kill me, mutt. Please.'"

I laugh, but the girl from 12's silent.

"Ah, well, let's get down to business," the trainer sighs. "Camouflage! Underappreciated art of the ancient world! I think. The key to this, girls, is blending in. Sometimes you only need for your opponent to miss you – even for a second – for you to get the jump on him. No need for fancy axe moves then when you can knife him in the back, ha!"

The trainer takes the girl from 12 and I through the ins-and-outs of camouflaging ourselves. The buckets aren't full of paint, as I assumed, but instead carry liquids and fluids straight from nature, such as mud and algae. Unfortunately, I'm not a quick learner. The girl from 12 outpaces me easily, creating patterns of brown, green, and black that blend in seamlessly with forest vegetation.

"How do you do that?" I ask her after thirty minutes of creating artistic disasters over pieces of wood. "You're like a natural."

She glances over at my work, squinting her eyes and scrunching up her face. I size her up as she looks at my designs. Her hair's a mess and she's no Capitol icon. This girl's skinny, and given how thin her arms are, I doubt she's ever had more than a mouthful to eat at any meal. Her hair's thin and patchy in parts, probably from malnutrition. Is this what life's like in District 12, the fabled poorest of all districts?

"You're trying to make it look like leaves and trees too much," she says in a much higher-pitched voice than I guess she'd have. She must be young. "Just…blotch it."

A stupid thought comes into my mind, and before I stop myself, I say, "Can I practice on you?"

The girl narrows her eyes and looks up at me like I'm possessed, but she merely says, "I guess."

Welp. I didn't think that out too clearly.

Too late now. I shove my fingers into the nearest bucket of muddy solution, turning them various shades of olive and chocolate. Feeling like an idiot, I hold up my hand to the girl's outstretched arm.

"I'm Summer Glenn, by the way," I say as I paint a splash of brown mud on the girl's arm. "You're from District 12?"

She nods, contorting her eyebrows as she watches me blob mud up and down her arm. "I'm Lily. Lily LeBray."

"Where's your district partner?" I say, only half-focusing on my work. It's a good thing, too, because I'm turning her skin into artistic genocide.

"I dunno. I don't like him," she says, glancing over across the gymnasium. "Where's yours?"

"Who knows. We got off to a rough start," I say with a shrug, accidentally dumping about a third of the bucket of mud on the floor. "This sounds stupid, but…you don't seem very old."

Lily blushes and looks away. "I'm not _that_ bad," she says. "I turned fourteen the day before the Reaping."

"Sorry," I say, and I mean it. "My mentor tells me I'm prying."

"It's okay," Lily says softly, looking down sadly at the botched job I've made of her arm. It looks like someone exploded a cow patty across her skin. "Most people usually don't ask much of anything."

"Their loss," I say. "I screwed that up, didn't I?"

She flicks a spot of mud off her hand and onto the floor, saying, "Well…it's not good."

"Gah," I throw up my hands, spattering the trainer's face with algae. "How'd you get good at this?"

"My dad works in the coal mines," Lily says, turning back to the wood tablet she's made into a pallet of green and brown swirls. "He tracks coal across our house's floor every time he comes home, and I always just put my hands in it and drew stuff on whatever I could find when I was younger. It's stupid, I guess. There's this bakery in the town that always inspired me."

"Bakery?" I laugh as I turn the next piece of wood I pick up into a bloodbath of red mud, as if two great armies died violently upon it.

"Don't laugh," she says defensively. "The baker's oldest son makes all the cakes there. I've seen him decorate them, even though my family can't afford anything from there. They're beautiful. I think his name's Peeta. He's a couple years younger than me."

"Dunno if decorating cakes would make good camouflage," I say. "Then again, given what I've made this piece of wood into…"

The station trainer comes over with a horrified look on his face and glances down at my slab of wood. "This is a tragedy, District 10," he says with a laugh. "We can name it _Abomination_."

Lily squeaks out a laugh, and my failure's so funny I can't help but laughing alongside her. Lily might be small and look weak, but she's the only other person outside Cal that I've felt a connection to in these Games so far. She's not bad. Maybe she can't handle a weapon very well, but she can camouflage herself and she's not afraid to let someone like me into her life.

Given the challenge ahead, what more can I really ask for?


	8. The Balance of Power

Training's a bit more difficult than I originally thought.

I can handle survival stations fine. All my years out on the prairie and watching my family's herds have kept me in tip-top shape from everything on how to light a fire to how to tie knots. Adapting my skill with a rope into making snares is easy business.

Once I approach the combat stations, however, my budding confidence freezes up and shatters.

Firing arrows from a bow looks easy enough, but it's anything but. Despite a full half-hour of hands-on instruction from the archery station's trainer, I lob my first arrow shot into the wall. It ricochets off the metal and bounces near my feet with a sad clatter. Practice doesn't help much, and by the time lunch rolls around in a half-hour, I'm no closer to being proficient at archery than I was when I woke up in the morning.

Frustrated, I walk with slumped shoulders into the cafeteria adjacent to the gymnasium for lunch. A half-dozen metal carts adorned with foods of all types line up along the far wall, past a number of empty gray tables. Apart from the food, it's dreary in here. Everything's a dull steel gray. High, arching metal beams give a jagged, angular look to the ceiling. If it wasn't for the other kids, I'd feel as if I was thrown into a prison.

Then again, I may as well be in one already. It's not like I can leave this place.

The six volunteers from Districts 1, 2, and 4 grab trays and jostle to the front of the line for food. Everyone else queues up behind them, as if this is expected, although I notice that Ladon seems to be avoiding Vespasian. I remind myself to keep up with what my fellow tributes are doing. I've barely been paying attention all morning since getting caught up in training.

I look back over my shoulder at Thorne, who stands near the end of the food line. He looks lost, his hands stuck in the pockets of his jumpsuit. I'm torn between feeling bad for him and feeling nothing at all. I told Thorne I'd start again with him, but every look at him makes me feel depressed. His murky, bitter attitude and sulkiness has turned me off, despite what I've said. I need an ally – that's for sure – but not one like him.

Lily sidles up behind me in the lunch line as Hector from District 1 holds everyone up by dumping half of his plate back on the first tray.

"Picky eater," I mutter.

"Are you…sitting with anyone?" Lily interjects, drumming her fingers on her plastic tray. "For lunch?"

I laugh, "I shot the wall with an arrow. I don't think anyone's begging to team up with me for lunch, Lily."

"I wasn't even going to try that," she smiles.

Well, at least we're in the same boat.

I hold back from loading up too much food, choosing to pick up a few slices of meat, a hunk of soft bread with flecks of thin, black, paper-like strips atop it, and a glass of water. On a whim, I spot a bowl full of strawberries and load a half-dozen onto my plate. I might as well splurge while I have the chance.

Lily and I find an empty table on the periphery of the room and sit down. Apparently, we're not the only ones who have spoken to one another: A number of other kids scatter about the cafeteria in pairs. I scrunch up my face when I see Thorne talking quietly – even _smiling_ – with the strange boy from District 3, Morse. I remember Acton saying he wasn't talkative, but somehow, my sulky district partner's gotten him to speak up.

Would I trust an alliance with District 3? I can't say I would. The technology district's known for its smart tributes, even if they usually don't win. What would be keeping Morse from stabbing me in the back with some sort of contraption he put together?

_Then again, what would stop Lily from doing the same_?

No. Lily wouldn't do that…would she?

I glance over at my…friend? Ally? Whatever she is…as she takes a bite of a thick, chunky piece of seeded bread. She's less than two years younger than me, but she looks young enough that betrayal and backstabbing haven't entered her vocabulary yet. Still, maybe I should keep my guard up. I've only known her for a few hours. No need to get desperate.

"Trouble," Lily says abruptly, looking up from her food and pointing over to the center of the room.

Over at a long table, Ladon glares over at Vespasian. The boy from District 2 watches him passively, his jaw stuck out and rigid. Ladon fumes, his face red and his lip trembling in anger. The other four from the three volunteer districts watch on passively, as if waiting for this feud to simmer over.

"Is that what you want?" Ladon barks, slamming his fist into the table. "Is it?"

Vespasian runs a hand through his hair and folds his hands into the crooks of his arms. "I'm not doing things your way," he says. "Forget it."

"I didn't ask what you wanted," Ladon snarls.

"Nope."

"I have the plan, here. You haven't put much on the table, two!"

Vespasian laughs. His bark is like a hyena's, high, sharp, and short: "I don't need your plan. Or you, for that matter."

The girl from District 1 – Myrina, the lanky, blonde-haired young woman with the strong shoulders – puts her hand on Ladon's arm, saying, "Why don't you sit down and let him talk for a minute?"

"Get off me," Ladon snarls, turning back to Vespasian. "And you: If you're so uppity, why stick around, huh? Why not go off on your own? Leave things to fate?"

Vespasian smiles, shrugs, and grabs his tray. "Think I will," he says.

Myrina glances around the table and takes off after Vespasian as he settles down at a nearby seat.

"Funny, huh? Look how things with just a little disagreement."

I snap my neck around to see Acton sitting a seat away from Lily and me, his eyes watching Ladon and his remaining three volunteer allies.

"What are you doing?" I shuffle back in my seat and ask.

Acton holds out his hand and points towards the group, saying, "Shh. Look at it. That's the balance of power shifting, girls. That's called an opportunity."

He looks hungry, his eyes narrowing and the corners of his mouth curling up in a smile. Lily scoots away from him, glancing quickly up at me as she does so.

"You didn't answer my question," I say more firmly.

Acton leans back, flicks his eyes at Lily, and spreads his left arm around at the room. "Look around the cafeteria, or whatever this thing is, Summer," he says. "People are getting it. If those volunteer kids from the inner districts team up, why don't we? See the kid from 3 over there with the guy from your district? And now the volunteers split in two, two against four. That's not very many. Why not take advantage?"

"What's your point?" I demand, crossing my arms and narrowing my eyes. I still don't trust Acton's motivations, and he sounds like a coiling rattlesnake right now with his scheming.

"Look," he turns to me, his face full of color. "How much chance do you think you have against those guys, huh? Or even just Vespasian by himself? I saw you trying out archery, and it wasn't...good. Even with both of you, how long does it take for Vespasian to pull out a sword and take care of business?"

He flicks his hand towards Lily, who looks as if she's afraid Acton's going to bite her.

"That guy," he goes on, nodding towards Vespasian. "Knows exactly what he's doing by abandoning everyone but District 1's girl there. Anyone who goes against him without a plan is dead. No doubt."

"So you've got this magical plan that'll work?" I scoff.

"'Course I do," Acton smiles. "Can't beat him with skill or strength, so beat him with numbers."

"Huh?"

"I'm good with my district partner, Acacia," he says, pointing towards a girl with bushy black hair at a nearby table. The girl – Acacia – has her head close with the girl from District 9 who Acton winked at earlier this morning, locked in conversation. "She and I are trying to get as many people on the same page as possible. If we throw six or seven of us against Vespasian and Myrina, or against Ladon's smaller band there, maybe one of us escapes the Games as a victor. It's not exactly a promise, but it's better than nothing for any of us."

I can tell from her look that Lily's not buying it. Her head's drooped low, but her eyes look cold and icy as she stares up at Acton. Finally, she speaks up: "What happens if we do?"

"Whatchu mean?"

"What if your little group kills them? What then? Everyone betrays everyone else?" she says quietly. "What's so different than the Careers about that?"

"What in the name of my left butt cheek is a Career?"

Lily blushes and looks away, saying, "It's, um, what we call them back home. The guys from 1 and 2. And 4."

"Huh. Career," Acton works his tongue around the word as if he's trying to swallow something particularly chewy. "Catchy. Does District 12 have any more good slang?"

"Why don't you answer her question?" I pipe up.

"Oh, what else can I get you?" he smirks at me. "Another plate of whatever that is? Aren't you demanding. Anyway, the point isn't that we're friends. This is Hunger Games. C'mon. But we can at least have our own set of rules. Y'know, we help each other until those…Careers, heh…are dead, then we give each other, say, an hour to scatter. Then it's a free-for-all. At least that way we know where we stand."

"Unless you stab us in the back," Lily says.

"I'm not that bad. I might _look_ that bad, but I'm not," Acton says, holding up his hands. "I believe in a little bit of fairness. It's not like I'm talking to that sneaky-looking kid from 3 over there, or anything."

He points to where Morse and Thorne sit, and I swallow hard. Is my district partner walking right into a trap?

Do I even care?

"Why Lily and me?" I say with a tilt of my head. "You already said we don't have much of a chance – thanks, by the way. But why come to us if you think we don't?"

"The skill and size doesn't matter. Aren't you listening?" he says. "It's about numbers. If we have 'em, they don't. That's all that matters. That's what the plan relies on. So – you in?"

I hesitate. I feel like Acton's leading me into a trap, but what if he's right? What chance do I have against Vespasian, confident enough that he can abandon the volunteer alliance, or against Ladon and his cronies? What if Acton does live up to his word?

Lily looks at me with wide eyes, like she wants me to make a decision for both of us.

"Fine," I say. "You want a little band of your own? Fine."

"That's the spirit," Acton laughs and slaps the table. "I'm gonna go see if –"

"I'm gonna watch you," I interject in warning. "Don't think I just trust you."

"It'd be weird if you did," he says with a wink.

Just like that, he's up and gone.

I look over to Lily, feeling guilty that I just cast both of our fates without so much as asking for her input. "We can always back out," I say.

"No. No, he's probably right," she says with a loud sigh, looking down at her food with an expression of gray rain clouds. "I don't even have a plan."

"What's your mentor tell you?" I ask, leaning over the table towards her.

She blows air out of the side of her mouth and looks away. "My mentor? Haymitch is drunk all the time," she says. "And Effie doesn't care about anything but dresses. Neither of them think I'm going anywhere."

"Is Effie your escort?"

She nods, "Yeah. Why do you even trust me, Summer?"

I sit back. Why do I trust her? I don't really: I keep telling myself to watch her, to keep an eye on this girl from District 12. But when I compare her with everyone else I've met in the Games, is she that bad? I've got Austin, with his secretive escapades and boorish humor. Cesara, with her mysterious background and connections to Brutus. Eunomia and the stylists, who think of me less a human and more a canvas. And then there's Thorne – Thorne with his sulkiness, his mood swings, his bitterness towards anything he thinks doesn't correspond with his view of the world.

"You're honest," I admit, looking down at my forlorn plate of half-eaten strawberries. Bloody juice leaks out of one from the bite I've taken in it. It lingers on my plate like a carcass, its blood tainting my bread with scarlet streaks. "You trusted me to paint mud on your arm. And…and that's all I really care about."

She smiles and looks down again. There's softness and sadness in her dull brown eyes, but there's something else there, too. A fire, a determination – a willingness that says she isn't ready to die just yet.

I trust her. I might not trust Acton or anyone else, but I trust this girl from District 12. It's a start.


	9. Cal's Ruminations

_**A/N: Thank you so much for all the reviews and critiques, everyone! Bethanydee, mangesboy01, Toolasoo – you guys are the best. Thanks again for all the readership from everyone, as well! Means a lot to me.**_

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A puff of smoke hangs in the stale air of the tenth floor suite. Electronic lights of the brightest greens and gaudiest yellows shine in from the evening parties outside on the Capitol's streets, lighting up the dark ceiling of the room with a swirling, flashing aurora. Despite the light show, it's quiet in here. The floor-to-ceiling windows block out most of the sound from outside, and the only noise that fills the den is the sound of Cal's soft, slow puffs of his pipe, so much like a muted drum beat in the night.

Cal watches the lights scribble designs across the wall with a soft, vague expression. His eyes hang on one spot, unfocused and staring at both everything and nothing.

I hold my knees up to my chest on my couch, watching the lights flicker. Cesara yelled at me to go to bed earlier when she and Thorne retired, but Cal let me stay up. Austin hasn't returned yet – in fact, I haven't even seen my other mentor since early this morning. I can feel my confidence in him fading with each hour he's gone. Does Austin care about us? Or are we just another year's worth of tools to him, little things to be thrown away that only bring him back to this Capitol that entices him so much?

Cal interrupts my thoughts: "I spoke to Haymitch from District 12 when you were washing up earlier. He said you were gettin' along with his girl."

I nod, stare at my feet, and say, "Her name's Lily."

"Lily," Cal repeats, his gaze never moving. "I knew a Lily once back home. Long time ago."

"What happened to her?" I ask, looking up.

"I won the Games. She wanted nothing to do with me," Cal says with a shrug. "But that was years ago. Decades. I'm forty-five, Summer. I'm old in District 10 terms. My Games were twenty-eight years ago."

I grin and look away. It's strange talking to Cal. I never had these kinds of conversations with my aloof parents. I've barely known Cal but for a few days, and yet he talks to me like we've known each other for ages. It's strange…but reassuring, too. There's something else besides reminiscence in his voice. Belief, maybe. Hope, even if faded by time.

"What'd Haymitch say about her?" I ask after a minute of cool silence.

Cal scoffs, takes a long drag on his pipe, and says, "Ah, it's Haymitch. He said something about her being 'too small' and 'too quiet.' I don't know why I keep talking to him. For that matter, I don't know why I talk to a lot of the others. Pretty boring conversations, most of the time."

"Who's the mentor of District 7?" I ask. I'm thinking about Acton and whether or not I can trust him and the little band he's trying to put together. I saw him talking with both the tributes from District 9 during our afternoon training session. He's clearly ahead of the curve as far as the Games go, but is his word?

"7?" Cal coughs. "Blight and Sycamore. Bit like Austin and me, really. Not bad. Honest, for the most part. Why?"

"Nothing," I say quickly, looking out the window.

I don't want to lead Cal on to thinking that I've somehow become a popular tribute or anything. I haven't, really. Besides Lily, everyone else in the Games is just a shadow to me, a field of competitors.

_You sound like Austin_, a voice in my head rebukes me. _Next you'll look at them like cattle_. _Tools. Things to be used and discarded._

"I just don't like the two from District 4," I say to throw Cal off my thoughts. "They're…Careers, Lily called them. Ladon always seems angry."

"The boy? Yeah, I got that vibe, too," Cal nods. "Tell you the truth, Summer, I've never liked District 4. Maybe I'm moralizing, but they've always seemed so high-and-mighty, like they're innocent next to District 1 and 2, who don't hide that they're in the Games to win. Their two mentors this year, Finnick Odair and Brooke Maynor, are both Capitol toys."

"Isn't that just what Austin is?"

"Austin? Cow's crap, no," Cal laughs. "Austin might hang out with the Capitol crowd, but he has a head on his shoulders. Guy's smart, maybe a genius, for all I know. What game he's playing with the Capitol I don't know, but it's something deep. I don't think I want to know. He's dined with the President and his number-two man, the Executor, enough times to tell me that he has something secret up his sleeve."

Cal sighs and leans back in his chair. "I'd tell him it's dangerous, but he knows. He's thirty-five, he can handle himself. But back to District 4…Finnick and Brooke are just pretty faces. You were probably old enough to see Odair's games, right?"

I remember them from four years ago. Finnick's undoubtedly the best-looking victor to come out of the Games since…possibly ever…with his bronze hair, boyish, devious grin, and sparkling green eyes like emeralds buried against his steel cheekbones. That was enough to earn him a weapon dropped into the arena via parachute, and once he picked up a trident and a net, it was game over.

Those are the perks of beauty, I suppose. They're perks I can't say I'll enjoy with my plain face.

"Just watch out for all those types in the arena," Cal says, taking another drag on his pipe and watching the party revelers outside on the Capitol streets. "The brash types might not be the smartest, but they're tough and the Capitol eats 'em up."

"More'n just tributes to worry 'bout in the arena."

I look up at the sound of Austin's gravelly voice. He steps off of the elevator, his clothes torn, a nasty gash across his forehead that's caked with dried blood. From the exhausted look in his eyes and his messy hair, he's been doing something more than just carousing with the Capitol crowd like any old socialite.

"What in the name of Cesara's hair have you been doing since this morning?" Cal looks up and asks as if he's inquiring about the weather.

Austin looks over at me, smirks, and says, "Getting sponsorships."

"Your sponsors got a thing for knives or something?"

"Look," Austin holds out a hand that's covered in soot. "I was up at the Citadel. We gotta talk about what kind of shit they are making–"

"I told you," Cal growls, suddenly very serious. "Not in front of these two."

Austin and Cal glare at each other with eyes like smoldering coals, their faces walls of bronze and iron. I feel cold all of the sudden, as if I'm an unwanted guest about to witness a clash of some old married couple.

"I can leave if you want to talk," I say quietly.

"No," Austin holds his palm out towards me. "I'm gonna go shower and go to bed, anyway. Let you two talk. But we're talking tomorrow morning, Cal, once Summer and Thorne are down ta' training."

He storms off, angry at some invisible storm I can only imagine. He was up at the Citadel, that evil, black fortress atop the mountain? Does this have something to do with the Avoxes he mentioned to Cal back on the train?

I'm left very confused, and the awkward silence that hangs over the den once Austin's gone doesn't help me feel any better.

Cal sighs and takes a long, slow drag of his pipe, letting the smoke from his exhale linger in the air like an owl hanging on warm risers at the end of a long night. "How's your family back home, Summer?" he asks on a whim nearly five minutes after Austin's retired.

"My family?" I ask.

"Yeah. They say goodbye and all? Friends? Anybody who really care?"

I pick at my big toe's nail, wondering what Cal wants me to say. What's he looking for? Something to cheer me up, take my mind off of what Austin said?

"My parents don't really notice me much," I say, ambling about what to talk about. "They're always busy. My big sister looked after me more when I was growing up."

"Yeah? You two close?"

I nod, thinking of Holly. "She's alright. A little bossy and clingy."

"No boy waiting for you?"

"No," I say. At least, I don't think so. Plano's watching for sure – everyone does – but what's he thinking when he watches? Is Odessa keeping him company, the two of them content with each other? If I make it back home, I wonder if they'll have changed from watching me.

Then again, maybe I should hope they don't, if Cal's tale of the girl he knew, Lily, is any example. I don't want to be an outcast, cut off from friends and left to linger out in the sun like a carcass. I might fear a bloody death that faces me in the Games, or the terror of escaping from sword-wielding tributes…but being alone, being among the vacant, empty victors whose faces show that they're already living for the midnight oblivion of death, scares me even more.

The thought's making me uncomfortable, and I shift nervously in my seat. "Why're you asking?" I say.

Cal stares out the window and lays his smoldering pipe down on a side table. "Sometimes I wonder if we're doing the right thing as mentors."

"What else would you do?"

"I dunno," he says without so much as a shrug. "And that's just it, ain't it? I'm just makin' it up as I go, Summer. Austin is. Everyone is. It usually never works, but what happens when it does?"

He picks up his pipe again, adds a pinch of something black to the end, and takes another drag. "You come home, but do you really? I don't think I ever really came home, Summer. Austin's my only real friend. Cesara maybe too, if I'm desperate. How many friends do you think a guy like Finnick really has? Or someone like Haymitch, or Blight from 7 – are they really happy with their lives back home? People aren't celebrating them. People don't want anything to do with us. Once you go through the Games, it's like you've been branded when you get home. You're a rebel, some lone desperado trying to figure out what to do next and how to pick your feet up, day after day."

He kicks a stool towards the side of the room. "Ah, hell. I'm just rambling at this point, and I'm probably not even right. Austin seems to have figured it out. He's always at those bonfires and everything else back in the district. And I want you or Thorne to win. S'pose Life's better than death…most of the time, at least."

I don't know what to say. Between Cal's words and his long face, I can only figure that he's seen way too much and watched way too many of his kids walk to their deaths. After more than twenty years of getting to know kids only to see them die, how would I feel? Especially if Holly and Plano and Odessa abandoned me – I'd probably be a shell, as well.

"I don't think you're a bad mentor," I say suddenly. "And no one should have to be alone. That's not fair."

He grins sheepishly and looks down at his feet. "You might not be the toughest or strongest kid here, Summer, but you've got a heart. Don't let the Games take that away from you."

Cal stands up and stretches, glancing over at the clock on the wall and saying, "You should get some sleep, girl. Don't wanna be nodding off during training tomorrow."

I get up without a word and start off towards the hall, but I pause and look back. Cal smiles and nods me on: "Go on. Bed. Dream of some cows."

I laugh lightly and head off down the hall towards my room, but I don't make it all the way. Thorne's door is open, and when I look in, he's perched on his bed, staring at me with a strange little smile on his face.

"Did you really believe all that?" he smirks.

"What?" I ask.

He points to a vent above his bed as I walk in and close the door behind me. "I could hear you," he says. "The vents pick up a lot. 'Fact, I can hear District 11's escort snoring, too."

"What'd you mean if I believed that?" I say to cut him off. I don't really want to talk to Thorne this late at night, but I want to find out what he's getting at.

"With Cal?" Thorne scoffs. "C'mon, please. He was playing you for his little pity party."

"He was being honest! What's wrong with that?"

"That's not honesty," Thorne says, rolling his eyes. "You are so damn gullible, Summer. If you were a trainee like the guy who'll win this year, you'd get sucked right into all this Capitol crap. It's all a big show. Cal, Austin, they're just part of the show."

"You can't trust anybody with a little bit of authority, huh?" I say, slamming my hands onto my hips. "How can you talk with that creepy kid from District 3, and yet you think our mentors are out to get you? They're trying to help us."

"That 'creepy kid?' He's in the same boat as me," Thorne says, narrowing his eyes and spitting with an extra ounce of malice in his voice. "He's just another poor guy with nothing in these Games. At least you have something to go back to, Summer. You have your ranch and whatever else your people buy. Not like you or I will win anyway. Trainees have won the last seven. They'll win again this year. It's all rigged."

"What do you think Austin and Cal were doing before they won? They weren't like me. They were like you!"

Thorne folds his arms, leans back against his pillow, and looks up at me with a long, thin frown. "Not anymore, they're not," he says, his voice little more than a rumble of thunder. "Look at Austin. Guy's a Capitol shtick. You're an idiot for trusting anything he'd say. Like he really cares about you when he's already seen more than a dozen girls die."

"It's not them, it's you," I growl. "You're just so…so caught up in your bitterness and hatred for anything or anyone that's not just like you."

"That so?"

"Yes, it is! You can't trust anyone who isn't like you, and I'm an idiot, you're right. But I'm an idiot for thinking you'd actually think any different of me, that's what I'm an idiot for! You're never going to change."

I turn and grab the handle on his door, but Thorne just laughs behind me. "You know, I take it back," he says. "I hope you do win, Summer."

"Why would you?"

"I hope you win so everyone can see who you really are," he says, jutting out his lower jaw in defiance. "You're no different than anyone on the ranches, or even the Peacekeepers or Capitol. I hope you win and become President Snow's best bud. I hope you win and you're alone back home, just like Cal whines about. At least I know who my people are."

"Yeah, you would want that, huh?" I snarl. "Might as well burn down the world to make sure you're right."

He shakes his head and grins: "Well…if it works."

"Forget you," I say, ripping the door open and throwing it closed behind me.

Forget him, and forget his people. If that's what they think on the other side of the river in District 10, I don't need them pulling for me in the Games. I'll take people like Cal, no matter who 'their people' are, every time.


	10. The Sport of the Games

The lines are drawn during the next day of training. The trainee group's clearly broken down into Ladon and Raidne from District 4, Erinye from District 2, and the boy, Hector, from District 1. Meanwhile, Acton's assumed command of our little counter band of his district partner, Acacia, the boy and girl from District 9 – Durum and Teff – Lily, and me. If Acton wanted numbers, he has them.

Red-haired, freckled Durum and Teff are brother and sister, and they're nice, if stoic and quiet. From their tough shoulders and strong backs, however, I get the impression that they've built up some serious strength from years of working out in the grain fields of District 9. Likewise, Acacia's no slouch, either: Her arms put Lily and I's to shame, and I can only guess that kids in District 7 start working out in the lumber forests early.

"Here's the deal," Acton says after Atala's racked up a head count and let us begin training for the day. The six of us have formed up a circle in the middle of the floor, drawing stares from a few other tributes. "We should break off into – hey, whatchu looking at?"

Morse, Thorne's partner from District 3, regards Acton with a look of hostile suspicion. I'm still fuming about last night's confrontation with Thorne, and right now, the sullen boy from District 3 looks like just another enemy. I don't have a problem seeing him as just an obstacle.

"Little punk," Acton growls, running a hand through his blond hair. "Kid gives me the creeps. Anyway, here's the deal. Durum, Teff, you guys seem like you got swords down pretty good. Good enough to roll, anyway, and since I saw you at all the combat stations yesterday before we talked, we need you both to learn something we haven't figured out yet."

"How 'bout fishing?" Acacia says blandly, looking at her fingernails as if they're waiting to burst open with excitement. I saw her yesterday at the axe station, and like Acton, she has an aptitude for the weapons. That's more than I can say for any weapon I've tried. "None of us are from District 4, anyway. I'll go with 'em."

"Yeah, that's cool," Durum nods. "We'll go 'round to the edible-whatever stations after that. Make sure we can eat bugs, huh? It's like second breakfast. Oh, how they spoil us."

The line's so dumb I can't help but laugh. At least the two from District 9 have a sense of humor. If nothing else, that's something I'll be glad to have in the arena.

"Lily, Summer," Acton turns to us. "I want to make sure you guys can handle a weapon. Not bows, because you might shoot me on accident, Summer, and I'd rather not add to the list of holes in my body."

I roll my eyes and look off towards the wall. He just keeps bringing that up.

"Wait," Lily says before we break out into our groups. I nearly jump: I haven't heard her as much as squeak since our little meeting started this morning.

"Wassup?" Acacia looks up with half-closed eyes.

Lily wrings her hands, looks around at all of us, and says, "How are we supposed to meet up at the Cornucopia? What if we're all spread out?"

Huh. I sure hadn't thought of that. She's right: We're almost certain to be split up all around the golden horn.

It hits me. It's always a golden horn, right?

"What if we just all run in the direction that the top of the horn's facing?" I blurt out. "Just run like, a hundred meters downfield of that."

"Just skip out on all the weapons?" Teff raises an eyebrow skeptically. "That's just giving the trainee guys everything."

"We could stick around and watch them kill us all," Durum nudges Teff with his shoulder. "It'd be fun."

"How 'bout this," Acton says, laying out his hands in front of him as if they're the arena field. "If there's anything within about, say, ten meters around you, grab that. A pack, a knife, a hunk of moldy bread –"

"I'll make sure to grab that."

"Har-har, Teff. Whatever you can grab inside that distance, grab it. Ignore everything closer into the Cornucopia. Once you grab your stuff, run for it. Let the other guys fight it over. Besides, I'm sure District 2 and District 4 need to settle their differences."

He glances over at Ladon, who's at the station for training with tridents and bidents. The boy from District 4 casts the occasional angry glance over towards Vespasian, who's throwing spears with perfect accuracy as if he's bored. Acton's probably right: One of them's likely to kill the other pretty quickly in the Games.

Good for us, I guess.

"Right, let's break," Acton claps his hands and we split up.

Acton drags Lily and I to the knife-throwing station, but it's pretty clear quickly that none of us have an aptitude for this skill.

"That's bull," Acton throws up his hands as his knife ricochets off a dummy twenty yards away for the thirtieth time. "Thing's made of metal or something."

I snort and pick up another knife to throw. It's a slender piece of work, a curved, thin blade with a well-balanced handle. Despite the design, I can't as much as aim it on target: My throw goes horribly off, and my knife nearly collides with Lily's own thrown weapon. Both our projectiles fly off into the wall, clattering to the ground with a depressing _clack_.

"Well, if you're trying to show off, you're doing a bad job," I say, picking up another knife. "I guess I am, too."

The station trainer, a young Capitol man with flaming red hair, comes hurrying up with his arms akimbo: "No, no, no, you three. You're doing it all wrong. _All wrong_."

He waddles up to Lily and puts his hands on her waist, saying, "See, you need the right poise! Hips slightly to the side, just like this! Then pull your arm over your hand and throw straight in front of you with proper balance!"

Lily grits her teeth and looks over at me with an expression that screams, _Help!_

"Y'know," I pipe up after chucking my knife at the ground. "Why don't we try something else?"

The trainer looks despondent as he says, "But we were just getting into position!"

Lily scampers away from his grasp towards the sword station as Acton and I follow.

"You think she's gonna be okay?" Acton says as we trail behind her. "I mean, she's younger than the rest of us…"

"It's not like she's twelve, Acton," I say, rolling my eyes.

He shrugs and says, "Yeah, but I mean, we're all seventeen, eighteen…"

"What're you talking about? I'm fifteen."

"You?" he widens his eyes like they're frogs' eggs. "I could've pegged you as seventeen. You're playing with me. C'mon. You're not fifteen. You're all…mature and stuff. Smart."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I say. "I turn sixteen in a little more than a month. I'm not playing anything."

"Okay, coulda fooled me," he says with a shrug. "Well, you suck with weapons –"

"Nice of you. 'Preciate it."

Acton laughs and waves his hand in the air: "Just speaking the truth. But you can figure things out, Summer. I saw you at the ropes station and at snares yesterday. You knew that stuff down to a T. Heck, that's what got me to ask you if you wanted in. Plus, you asked smart questions. You wanted to know why you could trust me. Today, you're here figuring out how to meet up at the Cornucopia. Maybe you can't throw a knife without stabbing yourself, but you can figure things out."

"I didn't stab myself, for your information," I say, but I smile. "I stabbed the floor. And the ceiling. And the wall."

"If we come across any intimidating walls, I'll make sure to send you into battle," Acton laughs. "You could have at least hit that trainer. I thought he was going to stalk Lily all over the place."

I glance over at Lily. She's already at the sword station, talking with the trainer on duty. Best get a move on.

"Why don't we practice while she's with the trainer?" I say, nodding towards the rack of wooden swords that line the station. "I don't know anything about swords. I know they're sharp."

"Well, that's a start," Acton smirks.

We stroll over to the sword station as Lily engages the trainer. She's not bad, actually. Lily wields some sort of small, curved blade that sweeps forward, and she's capable of holding her own against the trainer. Maybe he's holding himself back for her, but it's the first semblance of combat prowess I've seen out of my little ally since I first spoke to her yesterday.

Yesterday. Was it only yesterday? I suddenly feel as if I've known Acton and Lily for much longer than that.

Acton selects a long, slender wooden sword and hands me a shorter, blunter weapon as we square off at the sword station. I want to object at his advantage of reach, but the practice blade he's given me is stout and easy to handle. It's only about as long as my arm from its pommel to the tip of its blade, but it'll do.

"You ready?" Acton says, holding his sword aloft in front of him. "I admit, I've got no idea what I'm doing."

"Let's have no idea together, then," I say, pointing my training sword out at him.

Acton lunges and swings the sword down, but he's slow. I easily knock his blade out of the way and step back to parry another thrust. He smiles deviously and holds his sword aloft. As I move to counter, however, he fakes left and stabs his sword right into my stomach.

"Ow!" I exclaim as he hits me. I clutch a hand to my navel and step back.

Acton laughs, "Did I get you?"

"That was my belly button, you idiot!"

He presses his hand to his forehead and laughs as I rub my stomach furiously. Half of me wants to hit this boy, while the other half wants to laugh right alongside him.

I catch myself with a cold, sudden lurch. Acton's a leader. He's getting me comfortable around him, setting me up. Smart kid. Get me to laugh, make me feel at ease, and all the while working his way under my defenses. I'll play in his alliance, but I won't let my guard down after one poke from a wooden sword.

"I'm terrible at this," I say, tossing my sword to the ground and planting my hands on my hips. "Look, Lily's picking it up. Lemme work with the trainer."

Acton throws his hands out and looks frustrated: "One time and you're already quitting on me? C'mon."

"I'll do it again with you when I have it down. Gimme a minute to get it."

He shakes his head, flabbergasted, and says, "Fine. Lily, come spar with me."

The trainer wanders over to me as Lily and Acton square off. He's a tough Capitol type with strange orange designs down his well-muscled skin. "Looking for help?" he says.

I'm about to say yes when I glance over at the spear-throwing station. Something about the way Vespasian's pitching spears through small, spinning hoops effortlessly as if he's playing a game hits me. It is a game. It's just the hoops game we played back at home, pitching poles through the rolling rings. It's familiar. It's a start.

"No," I say. "I'm going over to that station."

The trainer looks disappointed, but I walk off quickly. I want time to myself, time to feel as if I can learn to handle a weapon without Acton or anyone else from the group peering over my shoulder.

The other volunteers are scattered about the gym, and Vespasian's ally Myrina is all the way off at the archery station. It's just us here, and he hardly notices me as I wander over, pick up a long, slender javelin off of a rack, and examine the weapon.

It's sleek and well-balanced for throwing, not at all like the cut-rate wooden poles we throw for fun back in District 10. It's at least as tall as I am, and I have no doubts that the sharpened metal point at the javelin's business end can put a man down before he can even scream. Time to give it a try.

I square up my hips towards a rectangular target about fifteen meters away. I need to at least hit the thing, if not the rough image of a man drawn on it, complete with black and white concentric circles sketched over the chest and torso. The javelin's light and easy to wield, and it feels natural to pick up the weapon and pull it back. With a swallow and a bit of hope, I take a step, hurl my arm forward, and release.

_Whih – thump!_

Well, it's a start. The javelin flies much straighter and farther than the old wooden poles back home do, and my aim's slightly off. I've hit the target just over the right shoulder of the image of the man, but it's the first time I've done something remotely well with a weapon so far. I'll take it.

I build up my aim over the next hour, ignoring everything around me in the gym and concentrating on hitting the target square in the man's chest. The racks hold several types of spears and javelins, and I make sure to try them all out and get a feel for the different types of weapons I could find in the arena. It's quiet work being by myself and learning this skill, but it's rewarding when I see the fruits of my labor start to pay off with more accurate throws. I start having the station trainer throw out hoops, just like back at home, and smile to myself when I'm able to pass my javelins through moving targets. Finally, _finally_, I can figure out how to defend myself in the arena. I'm not hopeless at weapons after all.

I'm giddy and grinning as I turn around to find another javelin, only to be reminded that I'm not alone at this station after all.

Vespasian sits on a stool a few feet away, one hand stroking his narrow chin, the other clutching a long spear with a sharp, curved blade at its end. He's been watching me.

"District 10?" he says, as much a question as an observation. "With 7's alliance, aren't you?"

I step back and don't reply. What does he want?

Vespasian stands up, and as he does, I realize that he's not nearly as slender and ordinary as he looks from afar. His body's all lean muscle and toned sinew, cold steel forged in a fiery furnace rather than the chipped, chiseled boulders that adorn Ladon's body. Vespasian's dark eyes and midnight hair only add to his aura of lethality. He's not a brute like some of the past tributes I've seen from District 2, but a weathered warrior.

He looks over at the target I've been throwing spears at, nodding and sticking out his lower lip in vague admiration of the three javelins still impaled in the target's stomach. "What happens if you miss?" he asks.

He doesn't wait for me to reply. Vespasian reaches over to the spear rack and places his own lance back among the others. He pulls out two long wooden staffs instead, hefting one up and letting the other clatter at my feet.

"Pick it up," he says when I step back and look at him with raised eyebrows.

"Why?" I ask, hesitating.

He shrugs and turns his back on me: "Or don't."

Before I can say anything, Vespasian whirls around and whips the staff at me. I don't have time to dodge before he stops the staff dead an inch from my waist.

"But better to defend yourself, I think," he says, raising the staff again and stepping back from me.

I cautiously pick up the staff and step away, saying, "What are you trying to do?"

"I watch everyone," he says, waving his index finger in the air. "You are not familiar with combat. There is little sport in that."

"Is that what you want?" I growl. "Sport?"

"Is it what I want?" he says without a hint of a smile or grin. "Or what you want?"

He doesn't give me time to rebut before lashing out with his staff, but this time I'm armed and ready. I block his quick thrust – barely – and steady my feet before Vespasian backs up again and pulls up his weapon.

"Spread your hands. It's no blade," he says.

"Are you trying to train me?"

He lowers his head but keeps his eyes fixed on mine: "Your ally was doing a poor job earlier."

I look over towards Acton at the swords station. He's still sparring with Lily, and it's as if they haven't even noticed I've left them. I turn around to find Vespasian swinging his staff right at my chest, and it's only a quick raise of my arm and a flash of my own weapon that I manage to avoid being hit.

"Taking your eyes off me is dangerous," he says, circling me with the staff pointed in front of him.

"Why d'you care?" I hiss. Something about his patronizing attitude, his stony emotionless responses, and his effortless, flawless jabs and swings has my temper raging like an inferno in my guts. "I'm just a victim to you, right? Just someone to kill. You're from District 2."

"This is a game, not a hunt," he says, jabbing his staff forward. I jump back to miss it, but he swings the other end of the pole forward like a scorpion's stinger. "There's no victory –" _Whack!_ "No honor –" _Whack!_ "-And no meaning in running down defenseless rabbits in the arena."

He steps back and holds the staff aloft. I'm sweating hard, but Vespasian's barely even breathing heavily after his sparring.

"I'm a competitor, not a hunter," he mutters. "And that separates me from scum like them."

He keeps his eyes on me but points off towards Ladon and Raidne at the trident station. It hits me: Vespasian doesn't want to kill kids – at least, not kids who can't fight back. That's why he's sparring with me and showing me how to fight with a spear. That's why he broke off any alliance with Ladon and his band, a group that probably has no qualm with executing a whimpering twelve year-old tribute. How had District 2 ever let someone like him volunteer?

"Are you deliberately trying to make it harder for you to win?" I ask incredulously.

"Call it what you want," Vespasian says. "I intend to level the playing field. An executioner is no victor."

He lashes out with the staff again – _one, two, three!_ – slashing at my waist, arms, and legs. I react on instinct and luck, blocking him with my staff and stumbling onto my rear after his fifth swipe.

"Move your feet," he says. "Statues crumble."

I feel heat rushing to my face and I quickly get up off the floor. "What if someone won't fight you?" I ask, the question coming out of nowhere. "What if they won't kill someone?"

"Something tells me that won't be a problem for you," he says, turning his back to me and whirling the staff around between his fingers. "Won't it be, Summer?"

I'm stunned he knows my name. Vespasian's well-informed, and he's right in his assumption. I might not like the thought of killing, but if it comes down to my death or someone else's, I'll fight for my life.

"They can fight me," Vespasian says. "Or they can leave their fate up for the beasts to decide, whether from the Capitol or District 4. Neither will give them a choice in the matter. They should get that chance. In the end, I think everyone would rather live when they have…something left to fight for."

"Do you?"

I don't know why I asked that. I have no desire to get to know Vespasian personally. He's skilled, and I almost admire his sense of honor – but he's a volunteer, a trainee from District 2. I don't want to cross his path in the arena, and I sure don't want him to have any grudge against me once the Games get going.

He looks over his shoulder at me, and for the first time, a slight smile creeps across his face as he answers, "Possibly."


	11. Caesar's Judgment

Day three of training brings its own take on horror. It's not the clash of tributes or the presentation in front of the Capitol and the nation that bothers me this time, however. It's the waiting.

My foot taps nervously on steel floor panels, jumping and bouncing to its own spasmodic beat. It's a hair too cold in this waiting room of metal walls and sterile white lights where the last seven of us tributes sit. Seventeen metal chairs to my left seat only air and empty space, their occupants already having passed before the Gamesmakers who await in the gymnasium that lies beyond a sealed black door. Only one boy still sits to my life – Durum, my ally from District 9. Thorne's to my right, his arms crossed over his chest and his face full of smugness, with the two from District 11, Lily, and Lily's district partner, Ash, to his right.

Durum hasn't said as much as a word since the Gamesmakers called his sister into the gym to show off her skills privately before their judging eyes. Teff's been gone at least five minutes, so whatever my red-headed ally's doing, it must be working.

Finally he looks my way, nods to my tapping feet, and says with a sarcastic grin, "Your plan's to serenade them into giving you a high score?"

I look down at my feet and bring them under control, muttering, "Sorry."

"Nuthin' to be sorry about," he sighs, looking up at the ceiling lights. It's perhaps the first serious comment I've heard out of Durum's mouth since meeting him yesterday. "I think everyone's jumpy at this part. Everyone but Ladon and Vespasian, at least."

"I'm not jumpy," I say defensively, trying not to look weak in front of my ally – although with his wiry, skinny frame, he's hardly the type of tough-looking kid that Acton and Vespasian are. "I'm just…bouncy."

Durum laughs weakly, "Whole lot of difference there, huh?"

"What's your plan when they call you?"

"Plan? Pff," he waves his hand in the air aimlessly. "I got no plan. Don't think I ever really had one."

"You don't even have a plan for this?" I say in shock. "Durum, they're gonna call you in minutes!"

"Not for this. For the Games," he says with a half-smile. "Shoot, Summer. I guess I'm just in it to keep my sister safe. I dunno. When they called us both back home at the Reaping…I stopped caring too much about the future. Why bother, right? Only one of us gets home, if either of us do. Figured at that point I'd just wing it and care about the here and now. When you can't count on tomorrow, why sweat it?"

I gaze at him with furrowed brow. It's strange logic: If he wants to look after Teff, why not try for the best score possible? Why not impress the audience? Why not do everything you can to survive?

"A good score'd help her, too," I say in protest.

"Does it?" Durum says, a look of resignation settling in over his face. It's so starkly different from his usual comical, bemused expression that I can't help but look away. "I don't even know if we can regroup in the arena. If we can, who says she and I both can? And even if that happens, a few sponsor gifts don't help out when someone else decides the arena's getting boring. What do you really learn in two-and-a-half days of training? I figure if you try and over-think this stuff, it's just going to end worse for you – and for anyone you're trying to help."

Silence settles in after Durum's last words. On one hand, I do understand. I understand that I'm not Vespasian, nor Ladon, nor any of the other trainees. I don't have their expertise or their skill, and Durum's right: A few days of preparation won't turn me into the forged blade that Vespasian is.

Still, a sponsor gift could be everything in the arena, even if what my mentors said is true about the Capitol hating deaths by starvation, dehydration, or the like. A knife, or even a rock, could be a handy tool in a fight to the death. There's no room for arguing against help when the Games are underway.

The Gamesmakers call Durum's name in another two minutes, and as he gets up with a sigh, I say softly, "Good luck."

He turns, looks back at me, smirks, and says, "Yeah, yeah I guess so. You too, ally."

* * *

My gut rolls like the waves of the fabled oceans as I sit in our floor's den hours later. I'm not confident in my performance in front of the Gamesmakers, especially since I'm only proficient in weapons thanks to Vespasian's ad-hoc training yesterday at the spears station. Survival aptitude only goes so far with a Capitol audience that wants blood and combat, not kids running around showing how to tie knots and lasso dummies.

"You don't gotta be that worried," Austin says, walking by me with a drink in his hand. He presses his hand down on my jittering knee and slumps onto the couch beside me. "It's just a score."

"It's sponsors or no sponsors," I moan into my wrist as I lean my head against my arms.

Austin sniffs and rubs his hand against a long, red mark on his forehead: "Not every sponsor looks at Caesar's numbers."

The cut hasn't healed from when I first saw him re-enter the floor bleeding two nights ago. What did he have to do to get sponsors that involved bleeding?

For his sake, I hope I can at least manage a decent score.

Thorne slumps down in a chair alongside the window. He doesn't look happy – when does he ever? – and I can only imagine that he can't be feeling too good about his private session, either. I haven't paid any attention to him around the gym during the training sessions, but what could he really have gotten good at in the Meatpacking Quarter? It's hard to wield a weapon inside of a cannery, and the slaughterhouses aren't exactly gladiatorial arenas.

"Hey Cesara," Austin says loudly as soon as our escort enters. "Why don'tcha get me another drink?"

She lowers her head and goes him a look of absolute distaste: "Why don't you leap out the window?"

"Yeah, you wish. You'd cry if I was gone, woman."

"Tears of joy, sure."

I almost think Austin and Cesara would be good for each other. Their snarky insults and ability to deflect each other's criticisms with ease is an all-too-perfect fit. That is, if they didn't kill each other if they spent more than a month under the same roof.

Austin leans over to me, belches, and says, "That's the district in her coming out. Don't listen to that harpy."

Cesara stares at him open-mouthed, her eyes flicking back and forth between Austin and I. Finally, she says, "Have you been drinking all day? Did you really say anything to her about –"

Before she can finish her sentence, Cal walks in and cuts her off: "Pipe down, you two. Show's 'bout to start."

Cesara shuts up but casts a dark look my direction. I feel a burst of heat shoot up through my cheeks. Stupid Austin! I didn't do anything but listen to him, and now his rambling has left Cesara mad at me. The _last_ thing I need right now is for one of the only people who can help me from outside of the arena to have a grudge against me.

The pre-broadcast show off in the Capitol's entertainment district ends and Caesar Flickerman's shining face fills the screen. Claudius Templesmith looks particularly limp next to Caesar, whose flashy pale blue suit and bright red bow tie manage to overcome ridiculous fashion with sheer extravagance.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I hope you haven't gone _anywhere!_" Caesar booms from the outdoor podium that hosts Claudius and him. A wide outdoor forum full of tens of thousands of screaming people seems alive behind the two announcers, like a sea of snakes fluttering up and down to some ecstatic beat. "What a show we've had so far, but the show's only getting started. You know what we're here for! The tributes! The scores! I _love_ it! Let's not waste any time – Claudius, let's kick things off with our illustrious first district and their male tribute, Hector!'

An image of Hector fills the screen in a dangerous, simulated pose, placed like he's on a rotating turntable surrounded by his vital statistics. I've barely paid any attention to the two from District 1, but I should: Hector's part of Ladon's band of four trainees, while district partner Myrina's with Vespasian. They'll be dangerous, and they're a huge obstacle in my way.

"Big tribute, highly skilled at the weapons, this is what you want in a top candidate as this year's victor," Claudius gushes. "I want to draw a comparison between Hector here and a tribute we had just a few years ago, one Finnick Odair from District 4. Let's get the highlights to show just what I mean."

Cesara sits forward and laughs: "I do like this show."

"Psh, you're way too old for him," Austin snorts, downing the remnants of his drink.

"Like that's stopped Finnick in the past," Cesara grumbles.

Claudius and Caesar show highlights back from a game I can still remember well – the 65th Hunger Games just four years ago. In the clips, bronze-skinned, tall, handsome Finnick wields his trident with ease, running, jumping, fighting – it's all easy to him. Claudius and Caesar gush, and every comparison they make between Hector and Finnick sends one more nervous spark of anxiety coursing through my guts.

"But ladies and gentlemen, that's not all," Caesar points to the camera with a stern expression. "Before we reveal Hector's score, we've got a special treat for your viewing tonight – Mr. Capitol Heartthrob himself, Finnick Odair!"

Cal makes a noise that sounds like a vomiting pig as Finnick takes the stage and shakes hands with Caesar. My mentor wasn't kidding about his dislike of the Capitol's favorite son.

"Hope you're not trying to replace me already with a new tribute, Claudius," Finnick says with a dashing smile as he shakes Templesmith's hand.

"Wouldn't dream of it, my boy," Claudius answers. "But District 1's going to give you plenty of competition, I think."

"Now, Finnick," Caesar says. "Before we get your opinion on the tribute field so far, let's get our score up for our first tribute. Hector Ramos, from District 1…leading off our ranks this year with a nine!"

And so it begins. Finnick trades barbs and good-natured jabs with Caesar and Claudius as the two hosts run down the list of my fellow tributes, their potential strengths and weaknesses, comparisons to past tributes over the last dozen or so Games, and finally, their scores. Admittedly, the show's darn good entertainment. I can see how the Capitol loves Caesar and this event so much – Flickerman can turn a battle to the death into a highly competitive sport, full of good fun and in-depth analysis. He's as good as it gets at presentation.

Cesara gets up to use the restroom when Caesar presents District 2's scores, and she misses perhaps the best ranking of the night. Erinye, the deadly-looking girl, picks up a ten, while Vespasian blows away even Finnick with an eleven. Finnick proves to be a good sport about it – especially when his Raidne and Ladon score an eight and a ten, respectively – but I can't help but be suspicious of him. It's not just that Cal detests District 4, or that Ladon's the nastiest and most arrogant tribute in this year's field – it's Finnick's silky words, his too-smooth face, his muscles chiseled to perfection. He doesn't look like a person. He looks like a machine, more a mutt than a victor now. Even his words sound too good to be true.

The scores aren't entirely predictable, despite the high marks from the trainees. Thorne's strange, silent ally, Morse from District 3, pulls in a surprising eight. I'm more surprised than I should be when Acton matches his score, and fellow District 7 ally Acacia manages a seven as well. Durum and Teff only take home a pair of sixes, but I'm not shocked. I doubt District 9 has many opportunities to gain combat skill. Frankly, I'm more surprised that Durum still managed a six despite his lack of preparation for the private training session.

My foot's tapping again as Teff's presentation comes to an end and Caesar moves on to Thorne. My district partner looks bored in his seat, as if this whole show is beneath him. I've given up on him.

Finnick expresses something close to boredom at Thorne's performance so far, provoking a long and overdramatic sigh from Cal. I'm surprised my mentors and Cesara have managed to stay quiet for most of the Games, but, like me, they're probably making mental notes about who to watch and who looks like the odds-on favorites at this point. Right now, it's not looking good for our contingent in District 10 – especially when Thorne only pulls a six. It's acceptable, but not anything special.

There's no way I did worse than him.

"Well…we can work with that," Cesara says only half-convincingly.

"Hey, s'not bad, kid," Cal adds reassuringly, still trying to get Thorne on the same page. By the way the boy looks at my mentor, however, I don't think that's going to happen.

Cesara turns towards Thorne and holds a finger out towards him, her expression grim: "Just make sure you don't let up in the interview two days from now. That's gonna make or break you with the audience, boy."

Cal's sympathetic look makes it seem as if he wants to say something, but he stops short of rebuking Cesara. I'm not sure if it's because he doesn't want to make a scene, or it's because – like me – he agrees with her.

Austin pours himself another drink, which I believe is his eighth of the night, as Caesar says, "Modest showing for District 10 so far. Before we get on to the second half of the ranching district, let me ask you, Finnick – what's your opinion on how District 10 stands up in the Games?"

"Well, they've been on a dry streak," Finnick says with a grin. "It's a bit of a step up from herding cows to winning in the Games, Caesar."

"Oh, do tell!"

"Seventeen years, is it?" Finnick says, looking at a sheet of paper in front of him. "You have to sympathize somewhat with the district's two victors, Cal and Austin –"

Austin says something I can't repeat as Finnick goes on, "-but it's gonna be hard for them to break that streak this year. Lotta tough tributes, Caesar, and only one goes home."

He flashes a winning grin at his last sentence, and Caesar, on cue, asks, "You wouldn't be campaigning to sponsors for your own two tributes right there, would you?"

"Caesar!" Finnick exclaims, playfully looking hurt. "I wouldn't dream of being so blatant on air! I'm a…neutral party. At least until later tonight."

"You dirty boy. I'd show you a real party," Cesara mutters with a smile, eliciting a loud gagging noise from Austin.

"I can hear a thousand Capitol ladies fainting from that one," Caesar laughs to Finnick's remark. "But on to our next tribute."

My heart races like a stampede as Claudius cuts in, "We've got 10's girl up next, Caesar, with Miss Summer Glenn. Fifteen, five-seven, a hundred-fifteen pounds on the spot. Maybe not dominant stats, but she's a healthy change of pace from a lot of the smaller, underweight tributes from the peripheral districts."

Finnick leans back in his chair right before they cut away to an image of me and my vitals. He looks bored, like I'm not worth his time. My dislike of him grows stronger.

"Before we get to the score, is any recent comparison tribute coming to mind for you, Claudius?" Caesar asks. "It's tough with the tributes with less of a chance in the Games. Early lines on Summer have her at seventeen-to-one odds."

"Well, tough to call odds before we get into the meat of scoring and interviewing," Claudius replies. "But if you're feeling confident, go ahead. We did have a boy from District 10 about seven years ago. Ranching family, good health, not bad overall on the first look – Conroe, that was his name."

Austin makes a retching noise next to me and shakes his head: "That's just a freakin' terrible comparison. Idiot."

I don't want to ask, but I do: "What happened to him?"

"He ended up a mess," Cal says with a sigh. "Died the second day in. Enobaria from District 2 skewered him while he was fetching water. Then she went on to win, so at least he had that goin' for him."

"Try not to follow Claudius's piss-poor comparison," Austin grunts. "The guy's gettin' senile in his old age."

"Thoughts on her before we show the score, Finnick?" Caesar says and turns to his guest.

"Well, she's got some tough odds," Finnick remarks as if he's waiting for this whole show to be over. "District 10's an outdoor district, so maybe that'll help, but we'll really have to see her score on this one."

"Let's bring it up, then!" Caesar says quickly. "And for Summer Glenn, District 10…a score of…five!"

Oh no. No, no, no. No, it wasn't supposed to be like this. I know I'm not much with weapons, but my survival skills and ability with a rope could only get me a five? A _five?_ That's signing a death warrant with sponsors. No one will sponsor a girl from District 10 who scores a five. I've failed training. I'm a nobody to the Capitol now.

I don't wait to see how Caesar, Claudius, and Finnick react. I don't even wait to see how my mentors and Cesara react. Instead I choke back a sob, stand up with a start, and rush out of the room.

I don't know where I'm going or what I'm doing, so I sprint down the hall to my bedroom and throw my face into my pillows. All I can do is cry. Will Acton and Lily and the others even want me now? Why would they want a girl who can only manage a five in training as part of their alliance? Heck, will Austin and Cal even want me at this point? They've seen enough kids die. What kind of chance does your run-of-the-mill girl like me have?

_Dammit Summer_, I scream inside my head as tears stain my pillow with hot, salty raindrops. _Dammit. You can't do anything right_. _You're pathetic. You idiot girl, you probably won't last a day in the arena. Everyone at home probably thinks you're a lost cause._

A knock on the door disrupts me from my crying. "Go away," I shout into my pillow.

"Don't do this to yourself, Summer," Cal says softly from somewhere behind me.

"Go _away!_" I scream louder, my voice still muffled by bed sheets.

Cal doesn't go away. He walks over and sits down on the bed beside me, prying me off of my stomach and hoisting me up into a hug. I let him. I don't have the strength to resist right now, and I let my head loll onto his shoulder like I'm a limp doll.

"Don't cry, girl," Cal says quietly. His voice is little more than the whispering wind in my ear. "Don't let them make you cry."

"Why d'you care?" I ask spitefully, spitting into his shoulder. "Why don't you just let me die like whatever that other boy's name was who died seven years ago."

"You're not him," Cal says without giving me a chance to go on. "You're a tough girl, Summer. Maybe you got a bad score tonight, but you got a heart and a head. I don't care what Caesar says. I don't give up on any of my kids."

"Then you're stupid," I say, my voice full of self-hatred. "I'm just gonna let you down again."

"No you won't."

"I got a _five_. Even that Finnick guy thought I was a joke."

"You are _not_ a joke," Cal says, running a hand through my hair. "You're a fighter. You're ten times the tribute I was, and I'm still standing here today."

I scoff and let out a half-cry, half-laugh: "Do you say that every year?"

"Yeah. But one year I'll be right, and it'll be this year. Besides, Austin's a terrible neighbor in the Victor's Village. I'll be a lot happier when you move in."

I fall away from his hug and collapse on the bed, my head drooping off to the side on my pillow. Cal says, "I know it's hard, Summer, but it's just a number. Austin and I will find you sponsors, however we have to do it. Don't you worry about anything but what you have to do. Just keep walking forward, girl."

"Plus," he adds, pushing a piece of hair out of my face. "You're too pretty for Caesar and Claudius to keep you down."

I snort at that, but I hide a hint of a smile in my pillow. As horrible as I'm feeling, at least there's someone left to comfort me in the darkness.

Cal picks up a blanket I shoved to the floor and pulls it up over my shoulders: "Get some sleep, girl. Dream of open fields and blue skies and horses. Dream of somewhere you'll go back to when this is all over."


	12. One of Them

"Well, it's pretty simple. The audience is gettin' tired of brutes and pretty boys winning the Games. We need something new. Something novel."

Cal, Austin, and I have been over this for a half an hour already. We broke up into groups in the morning, a day where I don't have to be in front of the Capitol or wary of my fellow tributes. Thorne went off with Cesara for the morning to learn how to present himself, while I'm with our mentors, figuring out how best to craft an image for the Capitol audience to relate to.

So far it's been a fruitless endeavor.

"I don't think I'm a brute or a pretty boy, so that's probably good," I say sarcastically. We have a few more hours together, and I'm getting antsy.

Austin snorts, "Nice try, but you're not a comedian either. Leave funny for someone else."

"Let's stop tryin' to make a broad strategy and start small instead," Cal says, holding a palm against his forehead. Let's do this. Summer, Ausitn and I'll ask you a question. Just answer what sounds best, and we'll try'ta figure out somethin' from there."

I shrug and say, "Okay. I don't really know what I'm supposed to say, though."

"Just say whatever sounds right. Austin, you first. You know Caesar."

"Lazy," Austin says. "Fine. Alright girl…you're a long way from District 10. What's amazed you most about the Capitol?"

I fiddle with my hands and look out the window of the den. Am I supposed to be acting? I feel like an idiot in front of my two mentors, but I say, "I…I guess it's just been the whole experience. The lights, the people…"

"You hear that, ladies and gentlemen?" Austin asks a chair that takes the place of the crowd. "We're an experience. Terrible answer. Don't be so vague, Summer."

"What am I supposed to say?" I protest. "I don't think I should say that I'm nervous and scared and everything else!"

"Guess we can cross off 'just be yourself' then," Austin says.

"Alright, new question," Cal cuts in. "Summer, tell us – what's your plan to win? How are you going to beat out these bigger and stronger tributes?"

If Cal and Austin are setting me up for what Caesar will ask tomorrow night, I'm in a world of hurt: "Well…I can keep myself alive and I can think on my feet. And I've made friends."

"First off, don't mention allies," Austin interjects, leaning back in his seat. "The audience wants a bit of surprise. Second, they really don't care if you can find food and stuff. They want to know about how you're going to dismember someone with a battleaxe."

"I don't think I'm going to do that."

"Well, don't be so sure. Cutting off limbs is a surefire way to excite-"

"Austin," Cal says, giving him a disapproving look. "Alright, Summer, there's a little in there we can work with. Thinking on your feet, all that."

"Oh, hell, let's skip the honesty charade," Austin says, throwing up a hand and rolling his eyes. "The audience doesn't give a hump about being honest. I'm not saying go on and on about being some warrior, because they probably won't believe that after last night –"

"Can we not talk about that?" I interrupt, rubbing my arms self-consciously.

"Yeah, but the point is this: Can you lie? Convincingly? 'Cuz if so, we can be a lot more…liberal about this."

I look to Cal, but he's not giving me any indication on what to say. I shrug and mutter, "I guess."

"Hope that's a yes, because I've got the angle you're gonna play."

"What's that?"

"You're gonna be one of them," Austin says triumphantly, crossing his arms with a smile. "You're gonna be the tribute the audience relates to. Not just the one they root for or cheer on, but the one they _get_."

"What?" I say, incredulous. "That's your plan? I'm not from the Capitol, I'm just from District 10. How are they supposed to _get_ me?"

"It doesn't matter where you're from or what you feel," Austin scoffs at me. "All you have to do is be the audience's avatar. The everyman – or everygirl, in your case. That's you. Act thankful for the Capitol. Express delight and interest in their fashion, their city, their…whatever. Act like you're nervous but excited about the Games in a good way, because that's how they feel, too. Act like _them_ – at least, while you're on that stage. Once you get in the arena, do whatever you want."

"What's the point if I'm just going to change in the arena anyway?"

"Austin's got a point," Cal says quietly. "The night after the interviews is the biggest sponsorship run of the year. It's when we make the real money, when everyone's hyped. A lot of the audience ain't too bright. You get them to start to feel for you and like you, and you can herd them on through the Games. They're like cattle, a bit."

I don't like this idea. It's not that I'm lying – I don't care about that if it can help me recover from yesterday's disastrous score – but I don't know if I can pull this off. I don't know if I can make it believable.

"So what am I supposed to say?" I ask with slumped shoulders.

"Think about Caesar. Think about the other escorts you've ever seen during the Games in the past," Austin says, leaning forward and planting his elbows on his knees. "They're bubbly. Jumpy. Bursting with passion and emotion. They believe in this stuff. Forget about survival or finding food or any of that. Hell, forget about the challenge of fighting. Think of it as entertainment. Think about fighting as fun and games. Think 'bout this as all a good show, and make them believe that's how you see it. Make them think Caesar plucked you off the street."

"The Capitol might look fake, but it's full of people, too," Cal chimes in. "They can still empathize. Brutes like District 4's kids might be alien to them, and same with the real quiet kids that come out of 11 and 12 and whatnot. But they can feel for someone who's like them. Someone familiar."

For the next two hours, Cal and Austin brief me on how the Capitol thinks and acts. It's a complex game of enthusiasm and unbridled emotion, with little room for logic and reasoning. If I thought I could act like the level-headed tribute I want to be in the arena, I was wrong. I have to be some other girl entirely, someone not born on the fields of District 10, but forged on these Capitol streets of asphalt and hedonism.

It's an exhausting riddle to solve, but I have it down enough for Cal and Austin to be pleased as we break for lunch. Cesara looks moody as we meet in the dining room as Thorne trails behind her. I can't imagine her morning's been fun with him. I can only hope that she won't take it out on me in the afternoon – and that she's forgotten all about anything Austin's said to me about her past.

Fortunately, when I go off to the entrance foyer with Cesara after lunch, she's walled off her moodiness and steeled herself for the next few hours.

"Well, this isn't gonna be much fun for you," Cesara pulls out a wooden chair and plops down in it, sloshing white wine around in a glass. "I've got the lovely job of showing you how to look presentable tomorrow night on stage down at the Forum Music Hall. Let's just get this started. Need you to change first."

She reaches back at a side table behind her and pulls out a long forest green dress. "Go to your room, change into this, and come back. Don't take too long," she says.

"Is this my dress for tomorrow?" I ask, holding up the fabric in front of me. It's certainly nice, made out of a soft, silky material that glides along my skin when I rub it down my arm. If I'm supposed to be excited about Capitol fashion on stage, I could do worse than this.

Cesara laughs and shakes her head: "Hell if I know. Those stylists are insane. Your person…what's her name? Eunomia? One day they'll make a rule where the stylists actually have to stick with the rest of the team. Anyway, if your chariot outfit's any indication, she'll go off into another dimension for tomorrow night. I wouldn't get too comfortable. Now c'mon. Go change."

I look like a different person once I've changed. I stand in front of my mirror for a minute admiring myself vainly and let my hair down across my shoulders and back. When the stylists get done with me, I won't even recognize myself. I'm not used to these fancy clothes and styles, but it's not…not bad. I've never thought of myself as pretty, and I'm pretty sure no one else has, either – with the exception of Cal last night – but the girl in the mirror lets a shy little smile sneak across her lips.

Austin, with two sandwiches in his hands, nearly runs into me as I walk back to the foyer. He takes a big bite of one sandwich, raises an eyebrow about as high as it can go, and says with his mouth full of food, "What'd you do with Summer?"

I feel heat rushing to my face again, but the good kind, not the anxious, nerve-wracking kind. Austin mutters something that sounds like "damn, girl" as I scurry past him to the foyer.

Cesara takes me through the basics of Capitol fashion and etiquette over the next three or so hours. For as tough and moody as she is, she's remarkably well versed in this stuff. She even gets me to figure out how to walk in high heels, something that takes a number of falls, stumbles, and loud squeaks on my part to get down. When the sun settles down towards the mountain horizon outside the window, I'm only too glad to take off these painful shoes.

"Alright, you can go change back to whatever," Cesara says. "We're done. Dinner'll be in an hour or so."

She stops. Something's going through her head, some infections though that's trapped her brain in a spider's web. Cesara looks back at me, sets down her half-empty glass of wine, and says, "Austin told you, didn't he?"

"About dinner?" I say, playing dumb.

"Don't be dense. I know he did. I know he did when he let it slip last night," Cesara says. "Austin just loves his little secrets – especially when they're not so secret anymore."

I freeze. Cesara doesn't look angry or irritated, but some animal underneath her skin bristles and coils.

She pushes out a chair towards me, nodding down towards it and saying, "Well, don't just stand there. They'll be busy with the boy for a while, and half-spilled glasses might as well be knocked over."

As if on cue, Cesara downs the remainder of her wine in one gulp. I take a seat as she starts by saying, "Austin doesn't belong in District 10. He's a…man of a different breed. I would have expected him back in District 2, but not from here?"

"District 2?"

Cesara gives me a look that screams, "stop pretending." I fold my hands in my lap and hunch down in my chair. Finally, I manage to say very quietly, "He…mighta mentioned something about it."

"Yeah, something," Cesara sneers at the wall. "He probably didn't say _where_ in District 2 I'm from."

"If you don't want to talk about it…"

"Oh, who cares? Who cares, when you're going into the arena in just a couple days? You're like him, you know? You just love to know everything, to squirm into the little holes of information and find out all you can," Cesara says with something between cynicism and admiration. "A lesser person would call it nosiness or prying. It seems to have made you allies, though, so who's really complaining?"

"Y'see," Cesara goes on. "In District 2, there are two people. There are those who work in the quarries, and those who…don't. I was the latter."

"Was?"

"You see me in District 2 now? I live here in the Capitol," Cesara says impatiently. "Was. Those who don't quarry stone or mine minerals train for different things. Some for positions with the Peacekeepers or the military, and some for the Hunger Games."

Cesara looks up, a sad smile playing across her face as she says, "I trained for the latter."

I startle in my seat and almost fall backwards as if rocked by an earthquake. What?!

"Funny, isn't it," Cesara says. "Thought I'd be sitting in that chair, learning how to walk in heels when I was eighteen. But there are dozens of us who train, and only two a year can go. The rest of us, well…we drift on."

"Why?" I gasp. "Why would you want to be a part of this? Of this…this show?"

"Why'd Austin?" Cesara laughs. "Say what you want about the victors, Summer, but they're set for life. Maybe they have to live with the memories and darkness, but we trained for that. We knew how to shut parts of our brain down, how to focus on what really mattered. I always was great at that. I could organize things better than anyone else my age all the way back when I was twelve. That was never enough for the victors and the trainers, though."

"I guess it paid off in a weird way," she says, swirling the dregs of her wine glass aimlessly. "Used it to get me a position in the military after I failed out of training – and yes, it's failing."

"You? You couldn't have been a Peacekeeper. I don't believe that."

"You think everyone in the army's a Peacekeeper? Everyone's a soldier?" Cesara says. "Yeah right. They need pencil-pushers, organizers, bureaucrats. These Capitol types would never do that, so they get people from District 2 and 1 to serve in administration, offer them the chance to live in the Capitol once their ten years are up. I can, and I did. It was mind-numbing, but for ten years I tolerated it. Once that was done, I got to live here. Got to embrace a little bit of a lost dream of escaping that dreary hellhole in District 2. The district gets hype in your District 10, but if you're a quarry worker, you wouldn't know it. Their little mining villages are just as bad as anywhere else in Panem. You think life's segregated in your home, with your river and your ranchers and slaughterhouse workers? District 2's no different."

"At least here," Cesara glances outside as she talks. "Here things are varied. Life's strange, and these people are a bunch of sycophantic leeches, but I don't have to worry about anything. I even get attention after making the cut to do this escort stuff. Heck, I'm good at organizing. Why not use it, I figure? It was all worth ten years in the military, traveling from time to time to District 6 and 8 with dumb-as-a-rock Peacekeepers."

"Life's a stupid thing like that," Cesara finishes. "It leads you all over the damn place, and except for a handful, most of us never figure out what we're looking for. Things just happen. When I was fifteen and punching a boy until his molar popped out, I didn't think in twenty years that I'd be teaching a kid from District 10 how to walk in heels."

She looks at me and sighs, "Guess I can do that too, though."

I don't know what to say. Cesara just dropped a bomb on me. My escort's not just from District 2, but a former _trainee_? Being from District 10, I should hate her. I shouldn't want to speak to her again. I should want to shout and scream at her for wanting to kill kids with ruthless intent, but I can't. I can't, because I'm not sure Cesara ever figured out the killing part of being a trainee. I'm not sure she ever wanted anything but a life without worry, without struggle.

Isn't that just what I want – a life without worry? To Cesara as a child in District 2, wouldn't the Hunger Games be the ultimate highway to that life? Is she really that different from Austin, from Finnick, from anyone else who has pushed aside the notion of the Games as a merciless bloodbath and taken them head-on as an opportunity?

A squelching feeling wells up in my stomach. What have I ever seen the Games as except something that happened to other people and produced a victor every year? Until they came for me, I never paid a minute's attention to the killing, the dead kids, and the violence.

I can't blame Cesara without blaming myself.

"I don't know if I should say sorry or congratulations," I mumble.

Cesara chuckles and looks down at her empty glass. "Y'know, I don't know what to think of you, either. I should be jealous of you. You're living my childhood dream. But I've seen Cal and Haymitch and all the other victors. Maybe I should stop thinking about what could have been and start just living what is. It's not like Panem's ever going to change. As long as we're here in the Capitol and the Games go on, this is life. Might as well get used to it."

"Go get changed," she says, standing up and tossing her glass on the table. "That dress's wrinkled from all the times you fell over in it."

I look back at Cesara before I leave the foyer. This woman, this escort who I so easily dismissed at every past Reaping, isn't so different from me or any of us out in the districts.

If she's not so different, what separates the Capitol from us, too? What separates us from the kids I'll have to fight and kill to survive in just a few days?


	13. Just Winging It

"Ouch!"

"If you keep moving about, girl you'll disrupt the whole look. Art is a quiet thing. Be still."

It's hard to be still when Eunomia keeps sticking pins into my hair. Her clumsy hands already have stuck needle points into my scalp three times. At this rate, I'm guessing her idea for my dress tonight is to show up as a trauma patient.

Eunomia's had me in this small, brightly-lit staging room in the Capitol's Forum Music Hall – the location of tonight's interviews with Caesar – for two hours already. My other stylists have combed over me with bright lights, strange pastes, scented scrubs, and more, and I'm already feeling less like a human and more like a sadistic toddler's doll.

I grit my teeth as Eunomia jams another pin into my hair. _It'll be over soon…maybe…I hope_.

"And there we are. Your hair…complete," Eunomia gushes as if she's putting the finishing touches on some masterpiece. "Come and see!"

She drags me off my stool and in front of a full-length mirror. I take a moment to see my hair – I still feel stupid standing in front of my stylist naked - but when I look up, I almost gasp from the extraordinary job Eunomia's done. I'm no master at styling, but even I can tell that the way she's managed to pin my hair up while still getting it to curl delicately around my ears and neck is a beauty. My face shines with a golden glow, and with the dark lines around my eyes, I look sophisticated. Classy. Even proper.

All the better to make the audience think I'm one of them, I guess.

"Now for the last part," Eunomia hums, reaching into a large closet next to the mirror. "Your dress. Turn around. It is not appreciated until it is _worn_."

That's a bit hypocritical for her to say, considering Eunomia wears nothing but her tattoos. I look towards the wall and tap my foot nervously as Eunomia fishes around for my clothes. I'm nervous about the interview ahead and anxious about if I can live up to what Austin expects out of me. He makes it sound so easy to blend in with the Capitol, but even though Caesar Flickerman sounds like the kind of guy can turn the quietest kid into a jabberjay, my stomach flutters in anticipation.

I close my eyes and feel Eunomia hang a soft, silky, light piece of clothing over my shoulders and close it tight in the back. She says something under her breath, pulls on a piece next to my right leg, and says, "Open. See!"

I open my eyes, look into the mirror, and can't contain my gasp this time.

I'm…beautiful? It's not a term I'm familiar with, but I have a hard time telling myself I'm anything else when I see my reflection. A flowing royal blue dress with thin golden wisps inlaid on the fabric covers me from my shoulders down to my ankles. The dress matches my eyes perfectly, and with my pair of golden high heels, it looks like I've lived my whole life in the Capitol.

"It's amazing," I breathe, feeling the fabric under my fingers.

"Of course it is," Eunomia says with a touch of audacity. "I designed it."

She ignores my frown and ushers me out of the room. I shuffle out in my heels into a hallway lit by electronic purple ribbons and green auroras swirling in a low ceiling.

"Pick up your feet, hurry," Eunomia scolds, not even bothering to look back at me as she makes her way down the hallway. I'm having a hard time keeping up in these shoes, but she's oblivious to my struggles.

We make our way to a low, long platform lined with a single row of twenty-four steel chairs. Other tributes and their stylists mingle about, some talking and energized, others quiet, with nervousness written on their faces. Everyone looks much better than I remember from during training. Even plain-looking kids like Durum and Teff – and me, I suppose – look like Capitol models.

I'm convinced whoever's running the show has turned up the heat underneath the stage here, however, because it gets unbearably hot once I see Acton.

My ally from District 7's dressed in a chocolate-brown attire with a forest green tie, a riff on the district's forestry heritage, I figure. It doesn't match his blond hair very well, but it doesn't matter: Acton wears the get-up as if it's a second skin. He looks calm, cool, collected – and I'm running through way too many superlatives in my head.

_Yikes, calm down_, a cautionary voice in my head warns. _The last thing you need to do is make yourself even more anxious._

"He looks…great," a quiet voice pipes up from beside me.

I look over my shoulder to see Lily walking up. She's not so bad, herself: Her stylist has dressed her in a long red dress that trails behind her, and somehow Lily's figured out high heels much better than I have. She's graceful on her feet, and her small stature makes her seem a serene sort of calm, like cirrus clouds high in the midday sky before a twilight thunderstorm.

"Yeah," I say, holding back an antsy giggle in my throat. "Have you…did you come up with a plan for all this interview stuff?"

Lily grimaces and shrugs, "Not really. Haymitch wasn't very helpful."

I make a mental reminder to thank Cal and Austin for helping me, rather than abandoning me, as Haymitch seems to have done to Lily. I feel bad for my ally. What would it be like to go through the Games without any source of direction, guidance, or stability?

I guess the tired expression I've seen creep across Lily's features several times during training tells me everything I need to know.

"Just gonna wing it?" I say.

She nods slowly, looking off into the distance and looking nowhere at the same time: "I don't really have anything else to go on."

I want to say something and offer her a piece of advice, but I have no ideas. I didn't have any ideas for _myself_, so how would I help her?

Right before Eunomia pushes me brusquely towards my seat, I get the feeling I'd be a terrible mentor.

The stage slowly begins to rise once we're all seated. I fight off the urge to glance around at everyone else and instead stare at my knees to suppress my rising anxiety. _Keep calm. Keep calm_. With the exception of the chariot parade just a few days ago – an event where everything whipped by in a blur – I've never been in front of anywhere remotely near as many people as I'll be in front of when our platform clears the stage. Thousands, maybe tens of thousands, of eyes in the audience in the Forum Music Hall will be solely fixed on _me_ when Caesar interviews me.

_No pressure, Summer_.

Ugh. At least in the Games I won't have to stare these people in the face. I won't see them. During the chariot parade, all we tributes were under the lights together. Here, it's one by one, each of us commanding the spotlight for a few minutes. It's a daunting proposition. Of course I only realize this seconds before I hear the crowd roar.

Lights blind me as if the sun's entered the great hall, and the deafening cacophony of the audience sounds like the gamesmakers have condensed a tornado inside this vast auditorium. I shield my eyes and force out a smile to keep myself from asphyxiating from the scene.

One voice breaks through the din.

"And here we are, our tributes, and one of them our to-be victor of the 69th Hunger Games!" Caesar Flickerman booms like he's welcoming a conquering legion to the stage. "District 1 to District 12, here for you tonight, ladies and gentlemen!"

My eyes adjust and I'm confronted with a seething, teeming mass of humanity. The crowd moves like one undulating monster, flowing in waves and ripples in rhythm with its great roar. The beast screams our names, cries for our smiles, demands our gaze and swoons when it receives them.

It is terrifying. It is dumbfounding.

Caesar commands the show with the grace of a maestro. He intimately engages the crowd, both the one before him and the much larger one watching on television across Panem. It's as if he's the higher brain in this giant beast, dictating its emotions, directing its feelings. I came into tonight loathing the man for announcing my pitiful score just two nights ago, but I'm awe-struck by his presence. In many ways, he strikes me as a much greater leader than even President Snow. Caesar understands these people. He _feels_ these people.

"Now I'm sure you're all sick of my terrible jokes by now," Caesar pushes into the main show, and I can feel the audience ready to pounce on us. "For those of you just tuning in, you've already missed a few of our _finest _past victors over the last decade on stage here under the lights – but the big show is _now_, ladies and gentlemen! Without further ado, let me hear you _scream_ – for District 1, for Miss _Myyyyy_rina Whittle!"

Vespasian's lone ally, Myrina, looks like she's just jumped out of a cloud as she strolls out of her seat and prances towards Caesar with a beaming smile. To my left I see Durum say something quietly to Teff. Despite their usual humor, my two allies from District 9 look terrified by all this extravagance and glamour.

_Well, at least we're on the same page…_

I've made a foolish mistake by not keeping track of Myrina during training. She smartly picked Vespasian over Ladon and his trainee band, and she puts her smarts on display in front of the nation during her interview. She's witty, crafty, sly with answers and impeccable in turning a phrase just right to make both Caesar and the audience laugh with rumbling chortles. I haven't watched how she's shown off her combat skills, but she did get a high score. She's gaining a whole different kind of high score tonight as she wraps the Capitol around her finger like a spider spinning its ensnared prey in silk.

In fact, most of the trainees from the Big Three districts surprise me. Out of all six of them, only Ladon puts on the usual "snarling, brash, brutish aggressor" image. None of the girls from those districts play up sex appeal or sheer looks, but instead rely on keen wit, will, and imagination to wow the audience. Vespasian's interview doesn't shock me – perhaps because I've learned not to be shocked by _anything_ the enigmatic boy from District 2 does. He doesn't sound pleased at all to be on stage, nor does he sound arrogant, ruthless, confident in his skills, or much else. Like he looked in training, he sounds _bored_, like he's waiting for something more exciting to happen. It's not arrogance. It's indifference, a frozen gray apathy.

Somehow, his performance still garners some of the biggest cheers of the early districts.

This isn't going like I expected. I expected I'd be able to separate myself from the trainees through empathizing with the audience, making me seem like the human in comparison to their machine-like power and lethality. Instead, they're lapping up all the attention early with personality and flow.

Screw it. I'm changing my strategy right here and right now. Forget planning. Forget sticking to a script. I'm not the one with the right idea, Lily is. I'm just going to wing it and go with wherever Caesar can lead me.

Oh boy.

My heart's thumping like a horse's hooves at full gallop when Durum concludes a decent but forgettable interview.

"Where has the time _gone_, ladies and gentlemen?" Caesar barks after Durum's walked back to his seat. "Already we're three-quarters through the night, and I feel like I've just gotten started!"

Someone near the stage yells out comically, "We're sick of you, Caesar!"

"Sick of me?" Caesar laughs, playing along. "That's a big turnaround from last night, Enobaria."

He flashes a winning smile and laughs perfectly in tune with the audience. The joke doesn't do anything to ease my nerves, however.

"But I can't go sparring with old victors all night. I'd be up here singing drinking shanties with Haymitch!" Caesar crows. "Enough of that! District 10 is waiting for me to shut up – so let's get a move on, District 10 and Miss Summer Glenn!"

That's my cue. I put on a big smile as the spotlight hits me, step up out of my seat, and walk towards Caesar with the same swishing gait that Cesara taught me. So far, so good – I don't fall down in my heels, which is a huge victory.

"Summer, Summer," Caesar grabs my hand and holds it out before leading me down to my seat. "You know, this is great timing. Spring's over in just a few days, and you know what season's after that."

It's a dumb riff on my name, but a thought enters my mind. It's a stupid thought, but before I can stop myself, I blurt out, "Caesar, everyone's said that line before. Maybe Enobaria's right."

Oh no. I shouldn't have done that. I'm immediately regretting my big mouth, but while I expect Caesar to get offended, he doesn't. He leans back and cracks up in uproarious laughter.

"That's absolutely brutal!" Caesar roars with an infectious smile. "You are a merciless woman, Summer! I'm not that bad, am I folks?"

The audience laughs, but one voice rings out from the front of the audience again: "You see, Caesar? I like this girl!"

Enobaria just gave me a ringing endorsement. Well…that went better than expected.

"Alright, I'm getting your strategy," Caesar folds his hands, leans in to me with shining eyes, and says, "Tell me if this sounds right, Summer. You get a modest score in training to throw people off…and just before the Games, you shock us all by making me your first victim in front of everyone."

"Well, they, uh…they took away my sword before I could come up here," I stumble over my words, but the audience's howling laughter stuns me. Where has this come from? I've never been much of a funny person – Austin said it himself just yesterday!

"It's okay, folks," Caesar cuts in. "She doesn't know where I live."

"You still have to interview me after the Games!" I protest innocently.

"Oh, forget what I said. I'm doomed. Enobaria will have to write my epitaph."

"It'll be short and blunt!" Enobaria yells out again. She and Caesar are having as much fun as anybody in this hall.

"Did I really show up for the interviews tonight? Because it feels like someone's put my name into the Games!" Caesar laughs. "You're killing me, Summer."

"No, I haven't gotten to that part yet, Caesar."

"Wait a minute – just what part are we on?"

"Well, I'm from District 10. I know these things," I say. This is getting easier with each lob he sends my way. It's like Caesar's lined up perfectly in rhythm with me since we began, and I've barely been thinking. He really _is_ a master at this. "You have to fatten the animal up before you kill it."

Caesar snaps his fingers with a mocking face of frustration and says, "Oh, I _knew_ I shouldn't have had that second course with dinner! It was a trap!"

It's a strange thing. With Caesar rolling right along and the audience in sync, I'm almost having…fun. For all the training Austin and Cal put me through, this isn't hard at all. I almost forget that this is still the Hunger Games and that I'm still here to fight for my life.

"Alright, Summer," Caesar says, his face growing serious. "Let's get into the meat of things. Oh, the meat, that's another one – next Enobaria's going to take my job! But Summer: You scored a five in training. You're from a rural district that hasn't won the Games in seventeen years. You're facing up against all these talented young men and women we've gotten to know ever since this year's Reapings. What is your plan? What is that secret strategy that's going to have me interviewing you after the last cannon has fired in the 69th Hunger Games? Something up your sleeve? A little mystery, ruthlessness, smarts, a talent you've held back until now? Tell us. We're just dying to know."

This is the first question that doesn't come easy. This one should make me think…but it doesn't. It doesn't, because really, haven't I had the answer all along since this interview began? This has been the biggest – the only – thing I really have done right in the Games so far.

There is no strategy.

"It's not a secret," I say, sitting up straight and folding my hands in my lap. "There's no…one thing I'm really good at. I'm not a warrior. I'm not a genius. I'm not gonna sing a song to make you cry or anything. I'm just gonna wing it…and we'll see what happens."

"Then let's hope those wings let you soar," Caesar says with passion dripping from his words. He stands with a start, grabbing my hand and hoisting it into the air triumphantly as he announces, "Ladies and gentlemen of Panem! Summer Glenn, from District 10!"


	14. Goodbye and Welcome

_**A/N: You reviewers are incredibly awesome. Thanks for the ongoing readership, the commitment – ah, I don't even have the right words!**_

* * *

My blood's still pumping hard back on the tenth floor of the Training Center later in the night. I'm still in my dress as Cesara, Thorne, and I enter the room from the elevator, where Cal and Austin are waiting for us.

"You two!" Cal shouts in elation as soon as he sees us. "Great job tonight. Real great job."

I hate to admit it, but I don't think he really means to include Thorne as part of "you two." Thorne interviewed…poorly. He stayed sullen and quiet throughout Caesar's attempts to pry open his secrets, and following up on my own interview, he left the audience disappointed. More and more, I hope I don't see him in the arena. I hope tomorrow morning is the last I have to see of Thorne, because I don't think I'd feel any remorse about defending myself against him during the Games. We're just too different, too incompatible.

Unlike Cal, Austin's not worried about hiding his preferences.

"You," he says, pointing his finger at me and smiling. "You crushed it, girl. I didn't think you had a chance against Caesar, but _bam_. That was outta left field. I don't even care that you completely ignored our prep session."

I let a little smile slip across my face and shrug, saying, "I just…felt like doing something different than what we said."

"Well, don'tcha worry," Austin says. "That gave us something to go with getting sponsorships tonight. That's a big help with momentum."

I swallow a lump in my throat. I forgot all about my two mentors leaving tonight to try and round up sponsorships for Thorne and I.

"Wait," I say, my smile gone. "You're gonna be back here tomorrow morning…right? Before we have to go?"

Austin shakes his head: "'Fraid not. We have to be at the Control Center really early tomorrow, before you two even wake up – and trust me, y'all need to get as much sleep as you can. Don't skimp to say goodbye."

My gut drops. So this is my first goodbye. I'm not even ready for it – I'm still on the high of the interviews and the audience, but now I have to sum up my feelings and let go of Cal and Austin. I've grown attached to them over the past few days, even with Austin's coarseness and Cal's melancholy demeanor. They've been more than mentors. They've given me guidance and support I so desperately needed.

I don't say anything, but I let go of my inhibitions and run up to Cal, grabbing him around the waist in a hug.

"Whoa, girl," he says, patting me on the back between my shoulders. "It'll be alright."

I wouldn't believe that consolation if it was anyone else – but because Cal said I'll be alright, I believe it.

He pulls me away, puts both hands on my shoulders, and looks me square in the eye: "You just take care of what you have to do, Summer. I got faith in you. You're a bright girl. I'll be there for ya' when you come back."

I sniff loudly and blink to stop the tears in my eyes from falling down my face. My throat clams up, and I only can hope he's right.

Austin shakes Thorne's hand wordlessly and claps my shoulder with a tight grin. He pulls me in close and leans in to whisper in my ear.

Rather than give me parting words of encouragement, however, Austin says something rather cryptic: "Don't let your eyes deceive you in that arena, Summer."

He pulls back and nods solemnly before saying, "Cal, let's go. The others'll be out there already, and we can't let tonight go to waste."

"Keep those odds in your favor, guys," Cal says with a sad smile. He joins Austin in the elevator, and the last thing I see of my two mentors is a tear welling up in Cal's eye. Then, with the _swoosh_ of the doors, they're gone.

Cesara lets out a loud sigh and says, "Austin's right. You two go get ready for bed and get as much sleep as you can. I'll get you in the morning to eat and get ready before it's time."

All of the sudden I feel exhausted. The energy from the interviews has fallen away, and I'm left with only the emptiness of Austin and Cal's swift departure. Tomorrow morning I'll say goodbye to this floor that's been my home over the last few days and goodbye to Cesara – and then, well…then maybe goodbye to everything. Goodbye is a long, slow, sad slog through a thick fog.

Still, Cesara's right. Reality's starting to hit home, and this might be the last time I sleep again in my life. It's a shocking thought, a sobering one. I scamper off to my room before I let my feelings show in front of Thorne and Cesara. I need to be alone right now. I need to let my tears out in private.

When I open the door to my room, I bump right into someone dressed entirely in red. I stumble back and rub my face, looking up at a blushing woman with dirty blonde hair. She's shorter than me, and when I apologize, she only shakes her head and slips past me. She's an avox – and I wonder why I haven't noticed them before. They're nearly invisible around here, tending to our needs behind the scene and keeping the floor clean.

Suddenly, Austin's words come back. _Don't let your eyes deceive you_…

Does he know something? Ever since I heard Austin let it slip to Cal about avoxes on the train, I've been wary about what the arena holds. From that to Austin's warning to Cal about the Citadel, and now tonight – what's going on with the Capitol and these avoxes?

Clearly Austin was trying to tell me something. Something's up – and I guess I'll find out just what tomorrow.

The anxiety hangs over me as I close my door and walk over to the floor-to-ceiling window that looks out over the Capitol streets. Thousands of revelers party, set off fireworks, and sing in the streets. They're having the times of their lives out there…and in here, I'm left with only a growing sickness in my heart.

I want to cry. I want to let everything out, unleash my emotions before I'll need all my steel fortitude in front of the cameras. Yet with the number of times I've felt angry or overwhelmed during the past week, now I'm left with only a gnawing hunger to fill the void in my chest. It's a clawing, desperate thing, an animal that tells me that I don't want to give up on life just yet. I want to feel again the happiness and jubilation those people on the streets feel. I want to know another's embrace, hear the whispering of the wind at dawn, see the sun sink down below the horizon.

Yet I know that none of those things are a guarantee. None of anything I've taken for granted in my past can be counted on now.

Exhaustion's overtaking me. I turn off the lights in the room and lay down on the bed, letting only the orange glow from the city illuminate my room.

Darkness washes out the light and I drift into tides of black oblivion.

* * *

"Summer. Time to wake up."

Cesara's shaking of my shoulder drags me from my sleep. I yawn, and I'm surprised I slept soundly through the night. My body must know what's ahead, because if it was left up to my mind, I'd have tossed and turned to the sunrise.

"Don't take too long getting ready," Cesara tells me. Lines crease her face in the cold white alpine sunlight, and she looks like she's aged a decade overnight. "Breakfast is ready whenever you are. Thorne's already eating."

As soon as Cesara's gone, I lay my cheek down on my down bed covers one last time. I don't want to leave the safety and comfort of this bed for the wild unknown that promises cold hardship and punishing judgment. Slowly I stumble out of bed and collapse in the shower as soon as its hot rain begins to fall.

Dinner comes up in a violent quake. I clamber onto my knees and face down into the drain, retching and heaving with the realization of what's about to happen. It's funny how quickly and quietly reality creeps up on you, but when it does, watch out. Just hours ago I was giddy with Caesar Flickerman on stage at the Forum Music Hall. Now I'm vomiting into my shower drain, and in a few more hours I'll be standing on a pedestal in the arena, watching my last minute of safety tick away.

I don't bother trying to look nice once I've climbed wearily out of my shower. I toss on a loose black shirt and long pants and stumble towards the door, forcing it up and walking down the hall as if in a haze.

"Whoa," Cesara says when she sees me. "Easy, girl. C'mon. Sit. Eat."

She helps me into a chair and pushes a plate full of red and orange and brown things in front of me. I've never admired Cesara's organizational skill before, but it's on full display this morning. She hurries between Thorne and I at opposite ends of the table, ensuring we're eating the right things and keeping a close eye on the time.

If Holly's so keen on being a mother, she could take a lot of lessons from Cesara.

Holly. My stomach knots up as I think of my sister back home. Has she woken up yet in our warm house, her feelings slipping and sliding as she steels herself to watch her sister face down possible death? Have Plano and Odessa, wondering what'll happen to their friend?

It's impossible to keep these thoughts out of my head as I force food down into my rebellious stomach. Time seems to rush by in a blur, and I feel like I've only sat down at the table when Cesara tells Thorne that it's time to go to the roof and board the hovercraft that'll take us to the arena.

I swallow hard as they head up in the elevator, leaving me alone in the dining room. The food on the table mocks me with its succulent delights, tempting me to stuff myself on delicacies I'll only dream of enjoying in the arena. I should eat more and make the most of what could be my last meal, but I can only drop my fork to my plate and push myself away. Reality's fog creeps in closer and closer, threatening to reach out and pull me into its mists.

"Summer?"

Cesara appears back in the elevator, this time without Thorne. I'm out of time.

I step away from the table on shaky legs. Cesara grabs my hand as I walk to the elevator, pulling me softly into the carriage as the doors close. The elevator rushes up three floors, and with a quiet gust of air, the doors open once more.

The Capitol's quiet this early in the morning, and the only thing disrupting the peace of the sun's rise is the gray, sleek hovercraft hanging like a vulture over the Training Center. A flexible steel ladder hangs down from the bowels of the beast, beckoning me forward unto my fate.

Cesara clasps my hand as I take a step forward and says, "Summer, do your best, okay? It gets a little old around here with Cal and Austin every year. I, um…I would like to see you again."

They're not much, but her words give me enough strength to clutch her hand one more time, walk out of the elevator, and grab the hovercraft's ladder with a firm grip.

Some sort of electrical field freezes me to the ladder, but I can still turn my head. The last thing I see of this place I've called home over the past week is Cesara staring up at me, her hands clasped together in front of her, her strange hair rustling in the soft morning wind.

Then steel and sterile light engulfs me, and Cesara is no more. Another goodbye come and gone.

I'm stuck to the ladder as I enter a small, brightly-lit white room in the belly of the hovercraft. A white-uniformed Capitol attendant rushes over and jabs a needle into my forearm. I squeak in protest at the pain, but he doesn't as much as flinch as he injects something and yanks the needle out.

"Take her in," he says to a Peacekeeper who enters the room.

The Peacekeeper pulls me off the ladder and drags me on into a much larger bay. At least a dozen of my fellow tributes already sit strapped into jump seats in here as each glances my way. I blush slightly at the attention as the Peacekeeper forces me into a seat, pulls a strap across my waist, and tightens it with one sharp pull. I wriggle for room, but it's securing me into the seat without much leeway.

"Well," a gravelly voice in the seat next to me says. "At least you survived making it to the roof."

Acton. Always defusing the situation, that boy from District 7. I look around for Lily, and though I can find my other allies in Durum, Teff, and Acacia already on board, my friend from District 12 hasn't made it up here yet.

"I guess the elevator's odds were in my favor," I say sarcastically to Acton.

"Where'd all this funny stuff come from?" he says. "That was crazy last night."

"Can we not talk right now?" I protest, noticing that several other eyes are watching me.

He goes quiet, and I immediately regret saying that. Acton's my ally. We need to trust each other in the arena, and pushing him away will only heighten my own anxiety.

The Peacekeepers push Lily into the bay two tributes later, strapping her in across from me. She's as pale as a corpse. Given how unhelpful she's said her mentor and escort are, I wager Haymitch hardly as much as said goodbye to her last night.

"You okay?" I mouth silently to her, wary of others listening in and trying to hone in on her vulnerability. She only looks up at me in response for a moment before staring back down at her hands.

The last tribute, the boy from District 6, gets on board and the hovercraft rumbles. I wish the Capitol at least provided windows in this thing. I'm sure we're flying high off into the sky, but all I can see is metal and nervous kids – kids who may be trying to kill me before this morning's over.

Everyone's quiet during the trip, even Ladon and his band of trainees. I figure reality's setting in for everyone as we fly towards the arena. Some of us won't live to see the sun reach its noon zenith today. Right now we're all just scared kids in a hovercraft, but give us uniforms, give us weapons, and tell us to kill, and we're warriors.

A half-hour passes and the hovercraft slows sharply. My seat rumbles as it touches down on the ground, and the Peacekeepers unstrap us and lead us away one by one. I glance up at Lily as I'm taken away, casting her one final look before I'm thrust into the dark, dank underbelly of the arena.

It smells musky down here in this world of pipes and vents and steel walls, like someone's left a pile of leaves around and forgotten about it. The Peacekeeper holds my arm and guides me along quickly past door after metal door. I don't look at them. I don't even think on this march towards destiny. It's a blur, a shadow, time passing without understanding or meaning.

The Peacekeeper forces me into a room marked "10-F," and when I enter, I spot Eunomia waiting for me. Great. She's not the person I wanted consoling me before walking into the arena.

"At last, the moment of truth," Eunomia breathes as if she's cultivating a masterpiece. "All of my work pays off. You must understand your importance in this competition of skill and strength. A victory would be the crowning achievement of my place in these Games, this…passion play."

I have no words.

Eunomia pulls the outfit I'll wear in the arena off of hooks on the wall and holds it up. "How uncivilized," she mutters, but I already can start to glean details of the arena from the clothes.

The gamesmakers have given me a loose, light, synthetic long-sleeved shirt colored in District 10's usual crimson-and-gold pattern. It feels like air when I pull it on, and given that there's no jacket or heavy clothing, I figure I'm headed into a hot environment. The pants are thick and durable but allow room to breathe, but it's the boots I pull on that get me thinking. They're made of a tough, sturdy material that protects my feet and gives a strong cushion for my soles. I'm guessing that means something hard's going to be underfoot, but what? Is it a volcanic arena or something?

Ugh. That'd be horrific. There has to be food and water of some sort: Like Austin said, what fun for the audience is an arena where everyone starves or dies of dehydration?

I tie the boots up and pull my hair back into the plain ponytail I always wore at home. I might as well look like myself if I'm going to square off with fate.

Minutes tick by. I sit in a metal chair, wringing my hands and picking my fingernails as Eunomia mutters things to herself. It's a tedious drag, and just when I'm about ready to attack my stylist out of sheer anxiety, a soft, pleasant female voice comes over the intercom, saying, "All tributes – sixty seconds to launch."

"That is it, that is it," Eunomia coos. "Hurry now, girl. Into the tube. Up, up, into the sky!"

It's as if the gamesmakers wanted to give me motivation to enter the arena. If it gets me away from Eunomia, all the better. I tuck my shirt into my pants, run my hand through my hair one more time, swallow the growing lump in my throat, and step forward onto the platform.

Sixty seconds pass much faster than I could've imagined. All too quickly a clear plastic tube encases me in a prison and begins rising. I push my hands into the tube, but I'm stuck.

The Games are on.

I'm shaking as the tube rises. I clench my fists, stamp my feet, and try to keep myself from vomiting up my breakfast. _Slow down, please slow down…give me more time!_

Then I feel it. It's a hot, dusty, arid breeze that whips into the tube as the ceiling opens up above me, revealing a big blue sky smattered with wispy clouds like horses' tails. I smell the scent of something old, something hewn from nature over centuries that plays on my tongue with a dry, salty taste. My skin prickles in the low humidity, and immediately I wish that I'd had more to drink this morning.

The tube pushes me into the air, and finally I see it.

I'm surrounded on all sides by red rocks as far as my eyes can see. Tall, steep buttes and wide, flat mesas stretch off into the distance, adorned by hardy trees, tough scrub, and thorny cacti that I remember from the edible plants station during training. To my left a fast-running river cuts through the red dirt, the water dark and murky from this distance. The strangest thing isn't the sights, however, but the sounds. This arena isn't teeming with life or energy. It's quiet. Closed. Serene.

Something else strikes me as the tube pushes me higher. The terrain's flat, with the exception of the buttes and mesas around me. There isn't much room to hide, and from a high vantage point, one could see for a dozen miles or more. I'm out in the open and easy prey.

_Keep calm, Summer_, I tell myself as my heart races. _Keep your head. Think. Think about your strategy_.

Just as I do, however, I hear the booming voice of Claudius Templesmith echo through the arena: "Ladies and gentlemen, tributes of Panem, welcome, welcome to the 69th annual running of the Hunger Games! Without further ado…let the Games begin!"

A trio of red flares shoot out from the golden horn of the Cornucopia in front of me, and I hear thumping drum beats begin counting down a minute in the sky. It's then that I take stock of the tributes around me, sizing up who I'm up against and what I can do.

Vespasian's to my right, giving me no notice as his eyes scan the Cornucopia. To my left is the girl from District 8, someone I haven't even bothered to watch during training. I don't remember her score, but I don't think she's much of a threat. Back I glance at the Cornucopia. The tip of the horn's pointing just to my left in the direction of the girl from 8, and it's there that I'll need to run if my allies stick to the plan. So far, so good. I'm in good position.

I spot Acton a few spots down to my right, but he's not looking at me. Something's piqued his eye near the Cornucopia, and I follow his gaze.

Generally the gamesmakers stock the Cornucopia with weapons, supplies, and the like, but this year they've added a twist. Four huge crates line up in front of the Cornucopia. They're sealed by their steel lids, but I have no doubt they're hiding all sorts of goodies for whoever's willing to rush forward and pop them open. A series of fist-sized rocks litter the ground near the crates. It strikes me: The gamesmakers are posing their first challenge. _You want the supplies inside? Come pick up a rock, bash your competitors, and find the treasure inside. Don't be shy_.

Forget that. I nervously accept the proposition that I'll be heading into the arena without any supplies when I look over my shoulder and glance something strange.

The sun glints off something silver about fifty meters behind me. I strain my eyes and it's clear: It's some kind of rope or cord made of metal, propped up next to a cactus. What in the world? Why have the gamesmakers put the supplies _away_ from the Cornucopia?

I wish I could shout out to Acton about my discovery, but I don't have time. Just as soon as I turn back towards the golden horn, a deafening cannon sounds, a trio of green flares blast out of the Cornucopia's tip, and I'm running for my life.

Screw the bloodbath. I spring off of my platform away from the Cornucopia, bolting for the metal rope I spotted a moment ago. It's the only sort of supply I can manage right now, but it'll do.

After twenty meters at a dead sprint I throw a look over my shoulder to make sure I'm not being followed. Back at the Cornucopia, Hector from District 1's the first one to the steel boxes. He grabs a rock, looks quickly around, and raises his hand just as the container erupts.


	15. The Girl and the Desert

_**A/N: Thanks for the new reviews, follows, and favorites, everyone! Never thought I'd get this much feedback when I started this story; you guys are the greatest!**_

* * *

I stumble backwards and fall down as I witness pure horror blast out of the box Hector's reached. There are no weapons, no treasure, no great bounties at the Cornucopia this year. There are only mutts.

Something ashen-skinned and well-muscled leaps out of the container and grabs Hector around the waist with thick fingers ending in sharp, curved talons. The creature's vaguely humanoid, with two legs, two arms, and a round head like any other human, but its shiny, rubbery hide and yowling, beast-like cries make it clear that it's not a person…at least, not any more.

That's not the strangest thing about this mutt, however. I realize it when the creature moans and digs its talons into Hector's face: It's wearing _clothes_, specifically the shredded, tattered remnants of a red uniform.

An _avox_ uniform.

Oh no.

I'm back on my feet and scrambling away from the Cornucopia in no time. I don't know how the gamesmakers turned an avox into a mindless killing machine, but I don't want to know. I just want to run.

Three more identical mutts climb out of the other containers, howling and wailing in the chaos around the Cornucopia. The bloodbath's devolved into a scramble to survive as the other tributes dash and sprint in every direction, ignoring any and all chance at finding weapons and simply trying to escape the mutts. I spot the silver gleam of the metal rope and focus on my prize, dashing away as fast as my legs can carry me. A loud _thud_ and a scream sound out from somewhere behind me, but I can't look back.

There! I slide in the dust next to the cactus and grab the rope. It's flexible and light, but tough from the strange silvery material it's made of. I spot the river and am just about to start running again when I afford myself one last look back towards the Cornucopia.

My gut drops when I see what's happening. The first mutt's busy chewing off Hector's face as the boy from District 1 flails in his death throes. Two other avox mutts sprint after a pair of tributes I don't know, chasing after them with frightening speed. Vespasian and Myrina linger near the horn, the two of them bashing the fourth mutt's head in with rocks as the creature wails and yelps. Crimson blood sprays on Vespasian's face like a fountain.

They're not alone near the Cornucopia, however. On the other side of the horn, Ladon has someone pinned to the ground, a bloody rock in his hand. I see him raise the rock to strike the kid again, and that's when I get a glimpse of the victim's face.

It's Acacia. One of my allies already is about to die.

This is all so screwed up. The plan's a mess. I can't help Acacia now, and I turn away with a sick feeling in my stomach. All I can do is coil the rope around my shoulder and sprint with all my speed towards the river, a half-mile or so away. I can't fight like this. I can't do anything but run, run to find water, run to find somewhere where I can regroup and think.

_Run Summer. Run. Run_.

More screams echo across the desert plain as I scramble to put some distance between me and any other tribute. I don't think about anyone else – about Lily, Acton, anyone. I'm saving my own skin. I can't let Ladon and his gang catch me, or let those…_things_…get me either. I won't die like that.

I don't stop sprinting until a full minute's gone by and my lungs are gasping for a breath. I slow into a steady trot, throwing glances behind me every now and then, but scrub, cacti, and thick, hardy white trees with tiny leaves block out the action.

I'm alone. I'm terrified, panting, sweating, hot, and alone.

It takes me another few minutes to reach the river. It's a shallow stream, not even as deep as I am tall – a good thing, considering that I can't swim. Still, the water's moving fast, and when I first dip my finger into it, I tense up from how cold it is.

No choice. I can't stick around, because for all I know, anyone could be hot on my trail. I'm unarmed, except for a rope that won't do me much good in one-on-one combat.

I grit my teeth and contain a squeak in my throat as I wade into the river. The water's just clear enough to see the bottom, but if there are any fish – or worse – in this river, I can't see them. I only hope I can make it across without something bad happening. It's about twenty meters to the other side, and as soon as I push off from the riverbank, I realize I need to move fast.

The current's much stronger when I'm actually in it as opposed to watching it. I stumble and stretch out my legs to keep a foothold on the sandy river bottom. About halfway across at the deepest part of the river, my foot catches on a root or rock or something and the current grabs hold of me.

I struggle in the water, but it's no use. The current drags me under the surface, and a cloudy explosion of sand obscures my vision. I fight the urge to breathe and claw my way towards something, anything, but I can't see the surface. A rock whips past my face and slashes my cheek. Pain sparks across my face and my lungs demand air. Just when I think I can't hold my breath anymore, a stray current jets underneath me and pushes me up above the surface.

"_Bwuh!_" I inhale sharply as soon as my head breaks into the air. Desperate to keep myself from going under again, I reach out and grab a branch sticking out from a nearby tree. My hand slams into the dry, prickly wood, but I hang on and pull myself towards the river bank. The cold water whips my legs, but with a burst of strength I drag myself out of the river and onto the hot sand.

Ugh. This morning has not gotten off to a good start.

Somehow my rope has clung to my shoulder throughout the botched river crossing, the one thing that went right about that move. I spit water out on the sand and look up just as something rattles near my foot.

A rattlesnake hisses and spits, half-buried under the shade of a large rock. It's about two feet away from my foot, but I know that's no distance at all for the snake to cross. It can leap that distance in the blink of an eye.

Feeling stupid, I raise my hand and point my index finger at the snake. "Go away," I mutter.

Huh. I must have a way with animals, because the snake backs off and slithers underneath its rock. Alright then.

The rock gives me an idea. I'm fairly well covered by the shade of the thick, white, leafless tree that I lay next to. I'm not that far from the Cornucopia, but I can't see anyone around me on this side of the river – and my visibility's not exactly limited in the dry air and open desert plain. I'm much more concerned about my lack of any tools or weapons, but the plethora of thick, strong rocks around gives me a way to fix that problem.

I pull the metal rope off my shoulder and grab a large, round, red stone in the dirt nearby. It takes me a little time to wrangle with the rock, but I manage to wrap the rope around the stone at ninety-degree angles and secure it in a tight knot underneath. When I'm done, I've made a primitive – but workable – flail. I'm not trained with this weapon, and with the weight of the rock, it's hardly a lasso. Still, it's better than nothing – and if I get the jump on someone, I might be able to knock them out before they even know I'm there. As long as I'm not in a protracted battle I should be fine.

I spot a large scorpion scuttling through the dirt and decide to test out my makeshift weapon. The rope's long, so I coil the loose end around my fist and use my other hand to swing the flail vertically before slamming the stone down onto the sand.

_Nice miss, Summer_. I swing it two more times before I finally hit the stupid scorpion, spraying bug guts all over the sand. I've made a mess, but one thing's sure: The flail sure can bash things.

I give myself a minute to admire my work before it's time to get moving again. It hasn't been that long since the bloodbath began, but I have no idea if anyone's coming this way. I drink a few handfuls of water from the river, toss my flail over my shoulder, and set off in the direction of a tall, rocky red butte off to the south.

It's then that the cannons sound in the air, crackling with their deafening shots of gunpowder over the still air of the desert. _Boom, boom, boom_ – the guns sound out once, twice, three times, four times! – and then go silent.

Four? Is that all? The bloodbath usually kills anywhere from eight to fourteen tributes in the opening hour of the Games…not four. That means there are twenty of us still alive and running around, a veritable crowd considering the usual Hunger Games spread. Avoiding detection will be much harder with the desert a much busier place.

The sun turns the desert into an oven as I walk for one hour, then the next. I follow the river towards the butte, careful not to lose my water source, and the sun's rays become so oppressive that I resort to plastering my face with mud just to keep my skin from burning. My uniform keeps the sun off of my arms and legs, but even its high-tech fiber can't ward off the omnipresent desert heat.

It's quiet out here on the flat. I'm the only thing moving about in the midday sun, with only the occasional shifting of a snake under a rock or scurrying of a rat between shady spots. I'm thinking they have the right idea, but I can't stop to rest. I need to keep going. Just need to keep…going.

My stomach rumbles with an angry thunder. There's plenty to drink here along the river, but I haven't eaten anything since breakfast. The mad dash from the Cornucopia, my struggle crossing the river, and the long hike since then has taken all the energy out of me, and I feel my eyes drooping out of lack of energy. There's got to be food somewhere. I'm sick of passing by all these stupid cacti without so much as one decent-looking animal popping out.

Wait a minute. I stop and glance over at the nearest cactus. The plant's green pads are stuck with enough spear-like thorns to outfit an army of insects, but plump purple lumps stick out from the ends of each pad. I remember these from the edible plants station in training! They're prickly pears – and while the thought of eating a cactus makes me hesitate, I need to eat _something_.

I reach down slowly to avoid the cactus's thorns and grab one of the purple lumps. Unfortunately, when I try to pull the thing away from the cactus, I yank too hard and the plant's pads stab my hand full of needles.

"Owie!" I yelp a little too loud. I drop the pear and grab my hand as the needles extract a toll of blood from my skin. Picking all the spines out of my hand takes me a good five minutes, and by the time I've pulled the last one out, I'm cursing this damn fruit in my mind. It had better be worth it.

I bash it open with a rock and examine the innards. They're the same purple color as the skin, but pulpy and full of liquid. I pry open the fruit and take a bite, and an explosion of tart and sweet slush erupts in my mouth. It's a godsend here on this arid plain, and I close my eyes in the bliss of the taste. Forget the thorns. It was worth it.

I devour the pear and two more before I've had enough to eat, but I scoop up two more of the fruit and stash them in my pockets once I've pulled the thorns out. I don't know if there will be any more of these cacti around the butte, and I need to collect all the food I can while it's in front of me.

The butte's much farther off then it seems. Once I leave the river and the safety of water, it takes me a good two hours or so – although my sense of time's already failing under the sun – before I reach the bottom of the butte's hill. The rocky mount's far too steep for me to climb myself, but I can at least get to the top of the surrounding mound of dirt and slag to get a look around me. I squint against the setting sun and pull my flail tighter across my shoulders. I have no idea what's going to come out at night, but I doubt it'll be anything good.

The sun's a scarlet crescent against the horizon when I reach the top of the bluff. I'm a little exposed out here in the waning daylight, but by the time night falls, I'll be virtually invisible against the cliff. Even better, I can see for miles up here. It'll be impossible to pick out tributes against the desert landscape during the night, but I'll be able to get a grip on my strategy in the morning. If nothing else, I'll hopefully be safe for the night.

I sit down, lay my makeshift weapon on the dirt, and pull the two cactus pears out of my pockets as the sun sets behind the distant mountains. I've smashed one of the fruit, but it's still edible – and I doubt the Capitol cares about sticky fingers when it's not their table.

Stars peek out from behind the darkening curtain of the sky and my eyelids grow heavy. I slump against the hot rock of the butte's cliff and start nodding off, but before I fall asleep, I'm roused suddenly by the blasting trumpets of the Capitol's anthem.

The sky lights up with a giant projector, a great beacon to the fallen amid the heavens. Faces and districts appear, marking my fellow tributes who have died here on the first day – kids who sat alongside me in the hovercraft just this morning, kids who spoke and laughed and shifted nervously next to Caesar Flickerman just last night.

Now they'll never speak again.

Hector's face kicks off the proceeding as I expected, followed quickly by the girl from District 3. I never knew her, but I'm saddened it's her and not her district partner. Morse still gives me the creeps.

I should feel something when Acacia's face shows up next. Sadness, remorse, anything but the empty apathy that hollows out my stomach. Out of all my potential allies – allies I all too quickly abandoned at the chaos of the Cornucopia – I knew Acacia the least. I only spoke to her once or twice, trusting Acton's judgment that she would make a good teammate. I guess I'll never know now. I'll never know anything but her scream as Ladon bashed her cranium in with a bloody rock.

I shake off lingering shivers as Lily's partner from District 12, Ash, finishes off the count of the dead. I know she didn't care much for Ash, but I wonder if she's feeling anything for him now. I wonder if it's anything like the way I'll feel if I see Thorne's face up there in the sky in the coming nights in the arena.

The recap of the killing leaves a chill clinging to my skin. The air's growing colder quickly with the sun gone, and I wrap my arms around my chest tightly. Curling into a ball against the rock, I burrow down into the sand to stay warm.

The cold's no match for my exhaustion, however, and soon the dark night sky's overtaken by a much emptier darkness.

* * *

I wake to the vermillion sky the next morning. An outlaw sun creeps up out of the east to dispel the darkness as the last pinpoint stars blink out of existence. It's still cold, but the first rays of morning light force me to smile.

I'm not dead. Might as well smile.

_Ah, the little things_, I think with a snarky tone as I dig myself out of the dirt. _Two days ago, waking up meant gorging yourself on breakfast. Now you're thanking the sun for avoiding being killed in your sleep_.

Well, the time's changed.

It's quiet again this morning, and I feel like I can hear everything going down on the desert floor. My stomach's growling, so I grab my rock flail, dust off dirt from my legs, and get a move on down towards the ground. I figure I'll make my way to the river, stock up on cactus pears again, and keep making my way down the riverbank so that I can stick close to water. It means I'll be more likely to run into others, but at the same time, I won't be dehydrated – and the shrubs and prickly trees down by the river provide more cover than the desert flats, where only bushes here and there break up the monotony of red rocks.

My plan's set, but just as I reach the bottom of the bluff, a loud, piercing scream fractures the serenity of the early morning. I drop to the ground and freeze, frantically searching my surroundings – but something else strikes me. That scream sounds familiar.

Whoever's in trouble shouts louder again, and this time I recognize the tribute. It's Teff.


	16. The Tribute's Trap

_Summer, you idiot! What are you doing?_

I don't know. As soon as I heard Teff's shout I took off running, and I can't stop my legs from carrying me forward at a full sprint. She shouted somewhere off towards the river, and I rush as fast as I can go towards a grove of scrub and fig trees around a quarter-mile or so to the west. There's a column of thick black smoke coming from right around there. Was Teff really so clueless that she lit a fire and attracted attention just one day into the arena?

This is so dumb. Teff's my ally, but running around the Hunger Games trying to save everyone is a recipe for disaster. Who knows what she's gotten herself into? I don't even have a plan when I get there. What if she's fighting mutts, or worse?

I guess I'm winging it. The Capitol must be laughing their heads off…if they're even awake at this hour.

I slow to a jog when I get closer. There's definitely someone near the fire and struggling with something on the ground. When I see a flash of bright red hair, I know it's Teff.

Something doesn't feel right about this. If it was a snake or something like that, I wouldn't expect her to be thrashing around and yanking at something in the dirt like she is. A knot tightens in my stomach and I slip down onto all fours in the cover of the scrub on the riverbank. The thorny plants hurt as I slink through them, but by taking it slow I don't make much noise – and the gathering wind of the morning makes the waving leaves of the trees and shrubbery look natural. I'm doubly glad now that I thought to smear myself with mud yesterday as a sun screen. It stuck to my face and hands during the night and has turned my palms an off-gray color. The dust of the desert's collected on my uniform, and the red of the synthetic fabric doesn't stand out too much from all the scarlet and crimson rocks that litter the ground for miles in every direction.

I try to slow my breathing as I creep in towards Teff. I want to rush forward and help her, but I'm still wracked with fear. Instead, I stop in the scrub about twenty meters away from her and observe from behind the cover of a particularly thick batch of leaves.

Pain lines my ally's face as she tries to pull her leg out of something in the dirt. I can't tell if she's fallen into a hole or a pit of mud or a gamesmaker trap, but whatever it is, she's not getting any closer to digging herself out. When she lifts her hand away from her foot and winces, I see blood covering her fingers. A fire built up out of dry branches and logs from the river trees burns nearby, with a generous helping of greenery producing all the thick black smoke.

That's the worst fire I've ever seen. It's almost like someone _wanted_ to draw attention.

Teff reaches down again, shuts her eyes, and pulls hard. She stumbles back and hops to regain her balance, but when she pulls her foot out of the hole, I see a thick, barbed wooden shaft sticking out of her foot. Half of it's covered in wet sand, and I can only imagine that the gamesmakers left it here as a sort of mine for unsuspecting tributes like her to fall into. I nearly gasp in horror, and I'm just about to slither out of my hiding spot and help her when something freezes every bone in my body.

"It looks like you're in a bit of a hole, District 9," a chilling, icy, almost unnatural voice calls out. "Did snooping around pay off for you?"

Teff looks up quickly and blanches. She grabs the stake in her foot and yanks the barb out with a shriek of pain as blood spurts from the wound.

My ally falls back onto her rear, throwing the stick on the ground and saying in a pained voice, "Did you set this up? You're sick!"

"I don't think I'm the sick one. Did you take a closer look at what you stepped on?"

"Screw off," Teff snaps. I can see she's holding back how much her wound hurts, covering her pain with anger at whoever's confronted her. I can't see her assailant through my cover, but I'm afraid to even breathe, much less step out and risk a grisly death.

The voice laughs: "You should care. Lemme show you."

"Come over here and I'll kill you!"

"With what, your hobbled foot? I'm the one who's armed. I'll take as long as I want."

When the voice steps out into my line of sight, it's all I can do to keep myself from crying out in surprise. It's Morse, Thorne's ally from District 3, and the boy looks a whole lot less awkward and much more dangerous. He holds a sharped torch in his right hand as he walks up to the stick Teff threw away, picking it up and pointing the barb towards my ally.

"See that stuff on the tip?" Morse says as if he's lecturing to a child. "That was my dinner two nights ago. You're already dead, District 9. Whatever poisons were circulating around my bowels now are moving through your bloodstream. In your hurry to check out my fire and probably kill what you thought was a dumb tribute, you walked into my trap instead. I don't need to kill you. I could just talk until you die a few days from now."

Morse turns away like he's going to walk off. Teff's face has lost all its anger and rage, and her eyes widen like a frightened girl terrified of what's coming. She can barely stand on her bleeding foot. I don't dare rush out now. All I'm armed with is this flail, whereas Morse's torch, sharpened to a deadly point, could easily end my life with one quick jab.

I'm hoping beyond hope he just walks away. Maybe he's bluffing, and maybe I can help Teff heal her foot and we can both live to see nightfall.

"Of course," Morse turns around, lofting the torch in front of him. "While I don't need to kill you…you're a liability. Sorry. Don't even remember your name."

Teff begins to spit it out, but as she does, Morse bends down with a snap and hurls a fistful of sand in her face. Teff coughs, chokes, and falls backward as her injured foot slips out from beneath her, and Morse is on her in less than a second.

I clench my hand over my mouth to stop the scream that wells up in my throat.

Morse steps back as Teff collapses, a charred hole punched through her heart. The light of her eyes already have gone out.

"What a strange little thing," Morse mutters to himself. "I'll have to try to that again."

It's by some miracle that he doesn't hear me shaking in the scrub. Morse walks off to the west as quickly as he came, but I can't move. My teeth chatter as soon as he's out of earshot and my heart pounds as I will Teff to get up. _Get up, Teff! Wake up!_

The cannon sounds one short, solemn, mournful note.

I plant my face into the red sand and cry with every ounce of emotion swirling through my body. I'm a sniveling coward! I sat here and just _watched_ as Morse killed Teff! I could've helped, I could've done…I could've done _something_ but just sit here. I'm just as bad as Morse. I'll never be able to face Durum if we meet in the arena. I'm complicit in his sister's death!

I'm no better than a killer.

_You're a pathetic excuse for a tribute_, I tell myself as my tears turn the sand into mud. _You're so stupid for thinking you could be a team player, Summer_. _When they come for you, you won't even be strong enough to face your killer like Teff did. You'll curl up into a ball and just die like a steer at a slaughterhouse._

I vomit prickly pear all over the sand as I curl my hands into fists and punch the ground. I just want to go home. I want to close my eyes and be lying on my bed when I open them, the first rays of the prairie sun coming in through my little bedroom's window. I want to see Holly barge in and tell me it's time for breakfast with an annoyed look. I want to be done with this sand and rock and blood and these killers.

When I open my eyes, Teff's gone. All that's left are her blood stains, barely visible against the red sand.

I don't even know why I'm thinking of Holly right now. She probably hates me for what I just did. My own sister's probably ashamed of me, and I don't blame her one bit.

That won't happen again. I can't do anything now but swear I won't sit here like a frightened toddler as someone kills one of my allies again.

And if I see that boy from District 3 again, I'll be _damn_ sure I make it up to Teff in the only way I can.

I don't get off to a good start. As soon as I leave the cover of the scrub, I nearly fall into a loose pit of sand covered up by a broad patch of leaves. I stumble away on all fours, and when my heart catches up, I exhale slowly and look into the hole. Morse must have laid multiple traps around for an unsuspecting tribute to fall into. It's a simple pit with rocks lining the sides. A trio of wooden sticks, their tips sharpened by what probably was a rock and coated in excrement, stick out at oblique angles from the bottom.

Nasty. Teff never would have seen it coming.

I'm careful to watch my step for the next few minutes as I head south along the river, away from that horrible trap that I can't wash out of my mind. I do the next best thing and wash vomit away from my uniform's collar with river water, pausing to grab a few prickly pears and a drink as part of a makeshift breakfast. It's amazing I'm still hungry after all that, but my stomach takes food and water without complaint.

There's nothing to do now but walk, so walk I do. I walk, and I walk, and I walk until I can't see the smoke of Morse's fire. Red rocks and lingering nausea keep me company, the river my only road. I don't know where I'm going, or what I'm looking for. Solace, perhaps? Freedom from guilt? Whatever it is, I don't know how to find it.

Hours pass and the sun turns from friend to enemy. Its rays heat up the desert like a blast furnace, and I slather a fresh coat of river mud on my face and hands. I wager Eunomia's cursing my name back in the Capitol. So be it. I gave up on attracting sponsorships from fashion-conscious Capitolians long ago.

I stop for a break on the river as the sun reaches its zenith. The river water looks refreshing, and I'm nearly tempted to take a dip, but I remember the terror of getting dragged along by the current yesterday. I won't make the same mistake again. Instead, I slosh water up and down my arms and legs, letting its welcome cold soothe my sweat-soaked skin. I only stop myself from drinking the entire river when I hear a rattling hiss behind me.

Slowly I turn around, careful not to make any quick movement. The largest rattlesnake I've ever seen coils up behind me, its rattle as loud as the strongest spring rainstorm. The diamond pattern along its tan skin shifts and morphs as the snake slowly uncoils, slithering closer and closer towards me. Unlike the snake yesterday, I don't think a simple "go away" will scare this serpent off.

I reach my hand out for my flail, but I only grasp sand. When I glance over I spot my mistake: I left my weapon back by the prickly pear bush I was picking. _Dammit, Summer!_ Another stupid mistake, and this time I've screwed up right in the face of danger!

I back up towards the river while keeping an eye on the rattlesnake. It's cutting me off from moving away, and it won't give up on its prize. Just as I contemplate jumping back into the water and taking a chance with the current, the snake lunges. I see a pair of dagger-like fangs and a long, forked tongue flying right at my face, and I throw my hands up in a desperate, instinctive attempt to keep the danger away.

_Thwack!_

A fist-sized rock flies in from out of nowhere and strikes the snake right in the mouth. A fang snaps off and flies over my shoulder as the rock drives the snake into the sand. The serpent lies deadly still once it's fallen. Not even the tiniest muscle moves along its long, slender body.

It takes me a moment to realize what's happened, but I'm shaken to my senses when I hear a voice across the river behind me say, "That was a good throw, right?"

I look back and can't believe my eyes.


	17. The Alliance in Tatters

I nearly break down when I see Acton standing across the river, a stupid grin plastered on his face. After the snake lunging at me and all the mess I've waded through to get here, from the Cornucopia to the river to Teff, finally, _finally_ seeing somebody – or something – that's not trying to kill me is a godsend.

"Acton!" I shout, my voice cracking. "I don't…I…how'd you get here?"

"Stupid story," he says, looking at his feet sheepishly. "Um…lemme get over there and I'll explain."

A nervous jab hits me. How can he get across? The current nearly dragged me under yesterday, and I don't want to lose him as soon as I've found a friendly face.

I glance around anxiously, looking for some sort of bridging piece to help him cross. "Wait," I say. "Let's look for a ford or something across this…"

Acton snorts, "What're you talking about? I swam across this thing twice yesterday. Hold up."

"No-" I start, but I don't have time to stop him. Acton dives into the water headfirst and disappears into the murky current. I hold my breath. Please come up. Please.

It turns out I worried for no reason at all. Acton surfaces a few seconds later a foot from my side of the river, and he easily jumps out and spits a mouthful of water on the ground.

I feel stupid: "Um…never mind then. I can't swim, so…"

"Really?" he laughs. "There're a buncha lakes back home. I guess you don't have much time for swimming when you're herding cows or whatever you do in District 10."

Ugh. A few minutes in and he's already poking fun at me. "So how'd you get here?" I say, cutting him off before he can go on.

"Well, uh…" he says, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking around. "Kinda obvious nobody's plan went right after the mutts busted out at the Cornucopia, right? I saw Acacia run at the horn, and…I mean, I hate to admit this in front of a girl –"

"What's that mean?"

"Okay, I'm not as brash as I like to talk sometimes. I hightailed it. I saw Erinye looking for people to kill and I ran as fast as I could. I think I was screaming my head off, I don't remember. That's not even the dumbest part, though. I ran into Durum later, and – whoa, Summer, you went really pale. You alright?"

I feel my face turn to ice, freezing under the desert sun like some sort of freakish July snowstorm. Durum. I don't even know how to approach him with the news of his sister's death…let alone what I did to let it happen.

"I, um…" I stammer, taking a deep breath to steady my thoughts. "I'm fine."

"No you're not. What happened?" Acton asks.

I can't cry in front of him. I turn around and place my forehead in my palm, trying to hold back the lingering guilt that's hung over my day.

"I ran into Teff," I murmur, my voice barely louder than a mouse's feet on a rug.

"Teff? Is she with you?" Acton says.

"No."

"Did she try to fight you or something? That little –"

"No!" I scream at him, turning around as heat fills my face. "She's dead, okay? Is that good enough for you?"

Acton goes quiet, and when he speaks again, it's in a somber, solemn voice: "Well, this plan's working fantastically."

"Oh, thanks! You know all the right things to say, Acton!"

"Look, I'm sorry Summer –"

"I just sat there and watched her die!" I scream, letting the last of my morning's emotions out the only way I can think of. "And I knew she couldn't do anything as he stabbed her, and I just sat there and did nothing! Sorry's not going to fix that!"

"Who stabbed her? Ladon?"

"No, that horrific boy from 3! Morse. He just stabbed her like he was making dinner or something, all cold and clinical."

Acton puts a hand on my shoulder as I wipe my eye: "Summer, it's alright."

"Don't touch me."

"Okay. Listen, you didn't kill Teff. You're still alive. If that kid – that Morse guy – killed her so easily, what d'you think he would've done to you, all alone and already down after watching Teff die? We never could have saved everyone anyway. It's the Games. We're…y'know. No one can blame you for surviving. Hell, that's what I've been trying to do since the Cornucopia kicked things off. I watched Acacia die and I didn't do anything. She was my own district partner, but I sure wasn't going to fight Ladon unarmed and out in the open."

"What am I gonna tell Durum?" I sniff. "It's his sister! He'll kill me, or…I dunno."

"I don't think we're gonna run into Durum for a long, long time," Acton says dryly.

"Why? I thought you said you were with him."

"Was. We hid out in a cave, only…it wasn't really a cave."

"What?"

Acton looks around nervously. He's on edge, like me, still afraid that someone's going to jump out and attack. As I get my head back under control, I realize I've put too much responsibility on Acton's shoulders. He posed as our alliance's leader, sure, but he's just a kid like everyone else in this thing. He's no trainee. He's not that different from me, really…and I guess he's right. Running from the Cornucopia's not a whole lot different than hiding from Morse in the bush.

_Yeah, tell yourself that to make the hurt go away…_

"Let's get moving first," Acton says. "I don't wanna stand around in the same place in case someone decides they're in the mood for violence. We can talk on the way."

I share my handful of half-smashed prickly pears I've stored in my pockets as we walk along the river. The sun's as hot as ever, but I don't notice it so much now that I have someone to talk to. It's like the arena's oppressive heat and arid air fall away around Acton. I want to apologize for yelling at him like I did, but he's caught up in his own tale – and I have a feeling he'd just downplay it, anyway.

"Anyway," Acton says after making a few feeble jokes to try and cheer me up. "Yesterday Durum and I checked out a cave in the side of a hill sometime in the afternoon. We checked for mutts, but no mutts."

"Are there more of those things?"

"Is interrupting your favorite hobby? Lemme tell my story – and I have no idea if there are more of those mutts. As I was saying, we sniffed around the cave and didn't find anything useful. We were gonna camp out there for the night, but Durum stepped on a…trap door?"

"He's there one moment, gone the next," Acton says, using his hands as props as he talks. "Just falls down a ramp twenty feet or so into the ground. I could still talk to him, but I couldn't see him – and hell if I was going down there after him. Besides, he told me to keep moving, that he'd find a way out. I guess I shoulda gone in as well, but the tunnel was dark…and he said he could hear something big moving around. I don't know what happened after that, since I left the cave. Gah, now that I think about it, that was just dumb. Who knows what he's run into, and he's all alone down there."

"You said it yourself, though," I say, shaking my head. "I mean, what could you do? If you didn't have anything to pull him up by…"

"It's not like I had that rope that's hanging over your shoulder. Where'd you get that, anyway?"

"It was near the Cornucopia. You didn't get anything?"

"Nope. I've been bumming it ever since."

I stop, crease my brow, and look around the wastes: "It's weird. What're we supposed to do out here with no supplies or anything? I don't get how that makes the Games interesting. Yeah, there's food and water, but nothing else."

"There's gotta be some twist," Acton says, pulling me along to keep us moving. "The audience'll get bored if we just linger out here. Who knows, maybe Durum's stumbled into the treasure chest underground or something."

Underground. Is that it? Is there a twist not to the Games, but the arena itself? I've only checked out the desert flats, but this is a big place. Who knows what's hiding away from the river, away from precious water and food? Who knows what's hiding for those tributes willing to take a risk? The problem is that since Teff's death and my own stupid mistakes of the first two days of the competition, I've become averse to taking risks beyond the most minor things.

Hopefully Acton has a better gameplan than me – but it doesn't sound like it.

"I dunno. Maybe this whole alliance idea was a dumb one," Acton muses after we walk in silence for a half hour. "I haven't seen Lily at all. Acacia's gone. Teff's dead. Durum's...pff, who knows. We're wandering around out here like idiot cowboys, and there are still five of the kids from 1, 2, and 4 somewhere in the arena, not to mention all the other people, since the bloodbath was so small. Not exactly good odds."

"I guess we just have to keep going," I mumble, more to myself than to him.

"Is that what your whole thing with Caesar was about?" he smirks. "When you were just like, 'I'm just gonna see what happens?'"

"Hey! I was just trying to make people laugh. Caesar had gotten that much to work."

"Great. I bet they're laughing now, all like, 'Look at those two dupes, stumbling around the desert with some weird rope-rock contraption and a few pears for protection!'"

"Are you gonna complain the whole time?"

"Yeah. Well, I'm going to eat and sleep, too. And maybe fart if these pears give me gas."

"Acton!"

"Hey, blame biology."

Something funny happens as we walk. Acton's jokey mood, even in light of our struggles only two days into the arena, have worn the weariness of Teff's death away. I start to feel like I did when I met him under the Remake Center before we launched in the chariot parade, when he teased me for the first time. Acton might not be the brightest guy ever, but he has a way of easing away tension and nerves. I've been suspicious of him all through the Games, but I'm glad he found me. I'm tired of feeling alone, even if it was only for a day and a half. It felt like a lifetime here in the arena.

We make camp near a grove of palm trees along the river as the sun slips down towards the horizon. It's oddly peaceful here. The air has a lonely feel to it, like Acton and I are the only ones here in the arena. The river water's as still as glass in the early evening serenity. I should feel afraid. I should be frantic, wary of a gamesmaker trap spurred on by a bored audience. Yet I'm not nervous. Instead, I'm…calm? Maybe, strangely, I've found a small slice of the peace I wished for early this morning. Maybe it's only for one night, but when I curl up in the desert sand, my stomach's not bouncing up and down with anxious jitters like a sac full of mice.

Violet streaks shoot across the sky, and the stars poke out of the twilight blue as shiny pinpricks in the heavens' fabric. Little gusts of cool breeze buffet me with pillows, the still-warm sand my blanket under the night. I wish this wasn't the Hunger Games. I could imagine myself out here with Plano and Odessa back home, just watching the stars, talking about anything…or nothing. I wouldn't have to worry about getting killed. I could just lie here all night until the stars fade into dreams.

It's a shattered beauty, this place. It's a lingering remnant of some slower, older time, interlaced with danger around every rock and butte.

"Jeez, it gets cold out here at night," Acton mutters next to me as the night's darkness sets in, the familiar eggshell road of the stars and galaxy tracing a path across the sky. "Are you cold?"

"A little," I murmur. "Just deal with it."

"Y'know, we don't _have_ to be cold. We both give off body heat, after all, and it'd be cozy if you and I –"

"Keep dreaming."

I wrap my arms around my chest and try to bury into the sand more. The air _is_ chilly, and it's making it hard to try and sleep.

Dammit.

I turn over, slump against Acton, and say, "Just for tonight."

"Yeah, you'll say that tomorrow night, too," he smirks as he pulls me in closer to his chest. He's warm and cushy like a dog's tummy, not at all like the gritty, hard ground.

"They say extraordinary circumstances bring people together," Acton mutters.

"Don't push your luck, mister," I mumble. "And I bet 'they' say lots of stupid things."

"Heh. Don't we all."

The cold night air dissolves in the warmth of Acton's arms and the rhythm of his steady breathing. Slowly, surely, his heartbeat lulls me to sleep.


	18. Shadows of the Heart

"Is that what I think it is?"

Acton and I set out from the river this morning after a quick bite to eat from the prickly pear cacti. We've hiked for about an hour away from the river and up the slope of a steep butte to the south. Now, we're poised looking out over the flat, and what I see doesn't make any sense.

"Yup," Acton says, craning his neck and squinting his eyes. "That's a house."

A plain, boxy, brown adobe building sits as the lonely blemish on the landscape below, a strangely civilized eyesore on the natural landscape of the desert. It's a two-story home, resembling some relic of whoever lived here before the Capitol and Panem came along. I don't know what's in there, but it smells like a gamesmaker trap.

"Why don't we just leave it?" I ask.

"Look at us, Summer," Acton scoffs. "We don't have real weapons. We don't have food or water, besides what's around the river – and how long until the gamesmakers screw with that? Let's just take a look. Nothing'll happen."

I sigh and follow him down the hill and towards the house. Something about this doesn't feel right.

It's a short jaunt to the house from the butte. The door's blue paint faded long ago and has left old, splintered pine behind. A couple cacti stick out of the hardened dirt around the house, with an old, worn fence falling apart around the premises.

Acton grabs the rusty steel handle on the door and turns to me: "You ready?"

"No," I admit.

He turns the handle anyway. The metal creaks as Acton opens it slowly, and I cough as choking dust rolls out of the interior of the house.

This place is a monument to some bygone age. Inside the small foyer, a carved, ornate wooden table and a rusted coat rack await residents who will never come home. An empty bronze picture frame hangs off-center on the walls of peeling paint and cockroach holes. Whatever made up the floor has long fallen away to bare concrete, ripped up and littered with the remains of ant colonies and other encroaching bugs. A small living room is home to a collapsing couch and a decrepit gray chair, along with something black and sleek that oddly resembles a television - albeit covered in dust and with its front screen turned into a maze of cracks and fractures.

"It feels old," I say as I sit down on the couch, rubbing my hand up and down its felt arms.

"Are you even looking for supplies?" Acton asks as he digs through the next room.

"I don't think we can drag a couch with us, Acton."

"C'mon. There has to be more than a chair here."

I get up with a grunt and start rooting around the den. There's nothing here but dust and memories, and as Acton complains in the kitchen he's searching, I begrudgingly start my way up the house's stairs to the second floor. It's just a gamesmaker plant to keep us interested and the audience on its toes. We were suckered in here for no reason.

I open the first door I see on the second floor, pop my head in, and scream.

"What is it?" Acton says as he rushes up the stairs. "Mutts?"

I grab my chest, but I feel like an idiot. Another gamesmaker ploy! An old, weathered skeleton lies on a short bed in the room I've walked into. The sight of it scared me half to death, but it can't hurt me. It's been a while since it's been able to hurt anyone.

"I don't like this place, Acton," I say, looking around nervously. "It feels so…unnatural. So staged. Like they just wanted to lure us in."

Acton sighs and holds out his hand towards the skeleton: "Summer, there's nothing dangerous here. It's just dust and bones…that's all. Maybe something we can use, though, so keep your eyes open. C'mon, let's keep looking."

I look closer at the skeleton once Acton's moved on to the next room. It's underdeveloped, small…a child's bones in a lonely, forgotten bedroom, left abandoned with time as its only companion. Something about that sends shivers down my spine.

Thoughts breed in my head like angry ants. What if this place isn't some gamesmaker trap? What if they just…just re-used some old lost part of the land as an arena? What if this isn't a ploy, but just a house that once stood here, with a family serving dinner so long ago, expecting nothing but a normal night right before the world ended? Right before…before whatever happened that cleared the way for Panem to rise? Am I looking at an arena's diversion or a child's tomb?

_I think you're looking at a child's tomb anyway, if you don't get moving_, a little voice in the back of my head says.

I sigh loudly and step out of the foreboding bedroom. I walk back into the small, desolate hallway and open the next door slowly, carefully. It creaks with a cicada's call as I slink inside. A low, wide bed greets me, along with a long wood-paneled table. I glance around and open a chest in the far side of the room, and suddenly all of Acton's predictions come true.

"Acton!" I shout. "Come see!"

It was a gamesmaker ploy all along – but one meant for us to explore, not for us to avoid. The wooden wardrobe that stretches from floor to ceiling in this bedroom holds a pair of backpacks bulging with items within, along with a long, sharp spear, a stout black tomahawk, and a study, thick combat knife hanging from hooks inside. A pair of metal water bottles sit on the base of the chest, and when I shake them, I can hear precious water sloshing around inside. Finally, _finally_ something goes our way in the arena.

"Oh, I like this," Acton says as he grabs the tomahawk and swings the weapon in the air aimlessly. "Thank you gamesmakers. It's all the fun of a sponsor present without the sponsors."

"Do you think this is the twist?" I ask as I pull one of the backpacks out of the wardrobe. "Do you think they just left…I dunno, supply caches around the wastes for us to find? I mean, when the Big Three districts win for the last seven years, it kinda makes the playing field a little more even."

"Hell, who cares? It's good for us," Acton says. "Gimme one of those of packs. Let's check what's in-"

Acton's interrupted by the crack of splintering paneling and the _bam!_ of the ceiling caving in. Something ashen and angry falls onto the floor from the home's attic space, spitting and clawing at anything it can get its hands on.

"Mutt!" Acton screams.

I stumble to my feet. One of the avox mutts has just burst out of the ceiling, and it rushes towards me with a hideous, mutated, inhuman expression and a mouth full of sharpened teeth. I dodge to the right on instinct, grabbing the flail on my shoulder and swinging the improvised weapon with all the force I can muster.

_Thwuck!_

My flail's rock smacks into the mutt's jaw, sending broken teeth flying across the room. The mutt crashes into the room's bed and stumbles around for its footing, its cold white eyes swiveling around in their sockets. Acton's on the thing in an instant with his tomahawk, but no sooner does he descend on the beast with a sickening _crunch_ then another mutt leaps out of the ceiling.

"Acton!" I cry.

The second avox mutt flies towards my ally with a burst of tattered crimson robes and shiny, slime-covered talons. Without thinking, I reach towards the wardrobe and draw the spear.

Acton doesn't have time to turn and fight. I throw the weapon with everything I've got.

_Thplat!_ My throw catches the mutt right under its jawline. I'm greeted by a spurt of crimson blood that explodes across my face.

When I look up, the mutt's pinned to the wall by the spear's point, fighting and yowling in its struggle to get free as blood pours all over the floor. Acton spins after finishing off his target, planting his axe right square in the mutt's face. It's over in an instant.

"Jeez!" Acton exclaims breathlessly. "Talk about a gift with conditions attached!"

I can't utter a word. I just killed one, two really, mutts – mutts that were once _people_, if Austin was right about what he suggested to Cal during training. Austin's suspicions, the mutts' shredded, worn pieces of scarlet clothing that cling to their bony waists and spindly chests…it all adds up. The Capitol threw _people_ in here to kill us against their will. It's part Hunger Games, part hunt, and we're the hunted.

It's kill or be killed…and I just killed.

I inhale sharply and back against the wardrobe. All that blood…it's everywhere. All my work.

"Hey," Acton says, retrieving his tomahawk from the mutt's skull. "You alright?"

"Yeah, I…" I gasp. I'm not alright. Not at all…but I'll have to be if I want to keep going in the Games. "I'm fine. Just gimme a sec."

Is everything going to be like this in the arena? Every good moment interspersed with something horrific and dangerous?

I exhale deeply and pull my new spear out of the mutt's jaw. It's a fine weapon, much better than my makeshift flail. The tip's forged of hardened steel, the shaft made of some light, shiny metal. It's easy to wield in my hand, and despite the horrific process of getting it, I'm glad to have it around. It makes me feel safe and secure in a land where everything seems out to get me.

"Let's move before we dig through the packs," Acton says quietly.

"I think we're alright," I say, untying my flail and letting the rock fall free. It's a lot more useful as a rope now than a weapon considering our haul.

"No, it's just…" Acton starts as he looks out a window. "There's a grove of trees near here. Might be water and food. This place is just gonna attract others, and I want to get outta here. Sorry, Summer, but I'm jumpy."

I glance at the pack still locked in the wardrobe. I want to see what's in these things, but Acton's probably right. No reason to take risks when we don't have to – especially since we've gone through enough for one morning already. Besides, Acton sounds nervous. I don't want to scare him any more than we have to, especially since I'm already on edge.

"Sure," I say casually. "Take this one. I'll take the knife. Just grab one of the water bottles and let's go."

As we leave, I look back at the two twitching mutt bodies. There's some other feeling coursing through my veins as my eyes slide across the stiffening muscle and blood-soaked skin of these depraved creatures. It's not the fear or tension I know I feel around the Capitol's nightmarish beasts. It's not repulsion or disgust for what I did.

It takes me a moment to find the right word for the emotion, but when I do, the truth horrifies me. A small, dark corner of my heart isn't dismayed at all by the violence. It's exhilarated. The aftermath of watching Teff struck down like a piece of meat while doing nothing has left me feeling angry – angry at myself, angry at the Games and this whole situation. A part of me's guilt-ridden and scared – but not all of me. Not the part that hides its face from the light and lurks only in shadow.

I get out of the house as fast as I can. I don't want to think about what acquiring a taste for violence could mean now that I've drawn first blood, even if only on a mutt – albeit one part human. I don't want to turn into Morse with his clinical brand of killing, or Ladon with his aggression and energy.

I'm all too happy to close the home's door behind me and walk away.

Acton doesn't look so thrilled. He squints his eyes and looks off into the distance towards a hazy patch of green. The desert heat's turning everything afar into wavy ripples in the midday air, and I can just make out a clump of palm trees and brush, herding together like cattle lost amid the sea of rock and dust.

"What is it?" I ask, craning my neck forward.

"We're not the only ones headed that way," he grunts, pointing out to a few slinking dark shapes circling in on the oasis. "More mutts. Looks like dogs."

I hear a yipping cry in the air: "Coyotes. We have them back in District 10. They're nothing to worry about."

"Man-mutts just attacked us out of a ceiling," Acton snorts in reply. "So…I can lie and say I'm not worried, or I can be truthful and say I'm watching everything that moves pretty carefully right now."

"The lie sounds better."

"Alrighty. Just be ready for a fight, then."

Acton tightens his backpack's straps and clutches his tomahawk tightly. I don't know why I said that. I don't want to get into a fight, either…or do I? Is the temptation of the oasis the only thing driving me forward? Why, when we could always just return to the river?

I heft my spear and walk side-by-side with Acton, glancing around the desert flat for anything more than coyotes. Great. Now _I'm_ getting paranoid.

The coyotes see something in the brush, and their excited cries and spastic jumping tell me it's something alive that's trying to ward them away. Another animal or mutt? Something worse? A nervous tremor runs down my leg as we close in on the oasis. It can't be Ladon's band – he would have just killed the animals outright. Is it Morse?

The outermost coyote, a small, slinking creature with a shimmering silver hide, takes notice of Acton and me. It barks a warning cry and snarls, forcing Acton to pause.

"You're the expert," he murmurs to me. "How do you shoo these things off?"

I pick up a large rock as an answer and hurl the stone as hard as I can at the coyote. My aim's true and the rock strikes the beast's nose with a loud _thup!_ and an accompanying yelp of pain. Coyotes are cowards. Nothing to worry about at all.

I declare victory over the animals as the coyotes circle and start to speed off away from us, but something still strikes me as off. The oasis is a gem out here in the desert: A wide, shallow, glassy pond as still as the air on the calmest night hosts a range of spiky green palms and stout fruit-bearing fig trees. Brown armored bugs scuttle here and there over wide, flat rocks on the pond's shore. Scruffy, thorny bushes large enough to conceal both Acton and I dot the sand between trees, some in clumps large enough that even Ladon or Vespasian could hide in.

One of the bushes to my right rustles. Something's in there.

"Looks safe to me," Acton muses, oblivious to the potential danger. "You're handy, Summer. Guess I gotta keep you around."

I ignore him, staring off into the distance but keeping my peripheral vision in sight of the bush as I step closer. Something breathes with shallow, quick pants in the brush, just loud enough for my ears to hear.

My arms leap on an instinctive rush. I smash the butt end of my spear into the bush with as much force as I can muster. The bush cries out in alarm as I hit something soft and fleshy. I whirl the polearm around to aim the spearhead into the vegetation, my body pushing forward to ram the weapon in when something struggles out of the bush.

"No! Stop!"

My eyes clear. Lily lies on her back, thorns poking out of her skin at odd angles, her arms crossed defensively over her face. Terror fills her eyes with storms.

I lurch backwards. My mind claws for answers.

"Please don't," Lily whispers. By the shaking of her voice and the trembling of her lips, I know what she's thinking. She thinks I'm ready to finish her off.

I don't have any words. I stumble backwards into a palm tree, horrified at what would have happened if she hadn't had the courage to come out from her hiding spot. I hadn't even thought as I raised the spear to strike. It was defense, it was being proactive against a Morse or someone else sneaking up on me, it was…it was…

"You _idiot!_" Acton barks. I turn towards him quickly, but he's not talking to me. "Lily, what're you thinking? Why didn't you say it was you?"

Lily jumps at the questions, her eyes racing back and forth between Acton and me. "You have weapons!" she protests, her hands still quivering. "I thought you were going to…I dunno…and those dog things were around…"

"They're just dogs!" Acton snarls. "We just ran into two mutts! We're already jumpy!"

"I don't want to die!"

"We're freaking teammates, Lily! I am not Ladon! Summer is not Raidne! We're not going to drag you out, tie you to a tree, and poke holes in you!"

I walk over to the water and gaze down at my reflection. How would Lily know that? How would she have known the coyotes were just dogs? I doubt they show up in District 12 much. How would she have known we were still playing by the remnants of our alliance after watching both Acacia and Teff show up in the evening death counts already?

In her eyes, she was Teff…and I was Morse, transformed into death in all its morbid glory, my spear her looming epitaph.

How fast we change in the arena.

"Acton, stop," I murmur as he accosts Lily. A ripple fractures my reflection into a hundred shards.

"You're gonna take her side? You were the one who was gonna stab her!" Acton says.

"Leave her alone," I say quietly. Suddenly I'm too tired to argue, too tired to shout.

I can't look at them. I don't even want to look at my own hands right now. An unconscious killer stalks the halls of my heart. It's one more beast rising its ugly head to challenge me today, and it won't be so easily dissuaded by rock or spear.


	19. Into the Deep

Amethyst streaks trace solemn paths across the sky, the final colors of the sun as day fades into night. Smoldering embers of our late afternoon fire glow dimly against the darkened sands. The coals keep my hands warm in the desert twilight as the temperatures plunge, diving from the furnace conditions of the day to the icebox of night in a flash.

Lily sits across from the burnt-out campfire, her hands around her knees, her chin resting on her arms. She's been quiet ever since I nearly killed her earlier today, but at least Acton's mellowed in the meantime. I know the arena's never safe, but having the two of them around makes me feel a lot better.

I pop one of the figs we've collected in the afternoon into my mouth and enjoy the flavor. It's a novelty, and one of the good kind – a rarity out here when most new things seem to have bad intentions.

"You hungry?" Acton asks Lily without looking up. She's hardly touched any of the figs, whereas Acton and I haven't stopped eating since we finished picking the trees.

She shakes her head. "They're all I've eaten the last few days," she murmurs quietly.

"Have you been hiding here the whole time?" I ask. She answers with a nod, and I shouldn't be surprised. It's not as if any of us have been hunting for tributes. We're just trying to survive out here. Lily's unarmed and without supplies. Why not run as far as possible to a source of food and water? If it weren't for the gamesmakers, she could hold out here for a long time.

"I guess we could find a rat or something to cook," I grouse.

"Is there even a plan still? Besides eating?" Lily says. It's the most words I've heard her string together all day. "I saw Acacia and Teff. I mean…in the sky."

I look away, pretending to be excited by another fig. I haven't told her about Teff, and I don't want to.

"It's a big arena," Acton says. "Besides you guys, I haven't run into anybody since I lost track of Durum. I mean, there've been a few cannons here and there, but no more than what, maybe eight or nine have died so far? We're missing something."

"We're well equipped. Why not explore a bit?" I ask. "You said Durum fell into an underground hole. Maybe that's where more supplies are – like with the house."

Supplies would be good. Food and water's nice, but the backpacks Acton and I took have helped immensely. Each contained bandages, a small serrated knife, a handful of small white pills Lily said were for treating pain, spare socks, an extra water bottle, and a few packets of dried fruit and meat. It's not exactly a godsend, but it's enough to make our outlook much brighter.

"They'd make us leave if they wanted us to leave," Lily says under her breath.

"What?"

"She's right," Acton says, his face nothing but a shadow in the fading light. "The only problems we've had so far are the ones we've run into. Hardly any big disasters or mutt stampedes or the like. It's like someone's waiting for us."

"Sounds creepy."

"Who knows," he shrugs. "I'd just like to know where everyone else's hiding. Unless they're all in bushes, of course."

Lily doesn't take the bait. Acton sighs loudly as an awkward silence descends before saying, "Fine. I'm going to try and sleep before whatever stupid thing happens tomorrow. You two can figure out how to keep watch."

We're quiet as Acton digs into the sand and falls asleep on a mess of palm leaves. I don't know how he sleeps so easily in the arena, but his snoring serenades us in less than five minutes.

Stars pop out across the sky, and the night's bright under a half moon and the milky ribbon of the galaxy. Lily clutches her arms tightly across the carcass of the campfire, her eyes dark and her hair still.

"You cold?" I ask quietly, more to interrupt the silence than anything else.

She shakes her head. I hope she's not still dwelling on our mishap earlier in the day.

"I didn't mean to hit you," I say awkwardly. "Earlier, I mean. I was just jumpy."

Lily shrugs. "Everyone's jumpy."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

I wrap my hands around each other and clutch my arms to my sides. She might not be cold, but _I'm_ cold, and Lily's simple replies aren't helping much. I don't want there to be anything bad between us. I need all the help I can get, and our alliance can't suffer cracks already. It's not like we're the best fighters out here.

Lily looks up. "Nobody in the sky tonight," she murmurs.

She's right. There were a few deaths yesterday besides Teff, but today there hasn't been as much as one cannon. The other tributes are fanning out over the arena, and something's going to have to give.

Something else catches my eye when I look up into the night. A rustling silver gleam of silver cuts through the starry sky, floating softly down towards our motley camp. It comes closer and closer, a breath of light in the darkness, a parachute! We have sponsors after all!

A little spirit leaps in excitement inside me as I jump to grab the parachute. I resist waking up Acton as Lily gathers around me. We're both eager to see what we received – and yet when I grab the parachute's silver delivery capsule and pry open its hinges, I'm left with only more questions. Our gift's not what I expected.

"What is that?" Lily asks in a hushed voice. She pushes a clump of dirty hair out of her eyes and squints, as if a better look will transform our gift into something useful.

I pull out a bundle of six thin red cylinders, each capped with a small scarlet end. "They're flares," I say. "Ranch hands sometimes have them back home for late nights on the fields…but I don't get why we need them."

Lily looks alarmed. She glances up, her breath cut short as she searches for danger. It's useless: There's nobody out here around us. We're safe for the time being from other tributes, and the only sound in the desert is Acton's snoring.

It's almost too quiet…and it's been getting darker quickly.

"The sky," Lily murmurs, a note of trepidation in her voice. "The stars are gone."

Smoldering clouds have replaced the starry skies and half-moon in less than five minutes, smothering the peaceful evening with an angry blanket. I frown and pass three of the flares to Lily, hooking the others on my belt. I don't like this.

Lily doesn't either. "I think we should get going," she says. "It looks like it's going to rain or something."

"Wake up Acton," I say. "Put the other backpack on and wake him up. I don't know what's happening, but –"

A blinding flash and a blast like dynamite interrupts me in explosive fashion.

_Boom!_

My vision fractures like a kaleidoscope. I hit the ground hard, a rock jabbing into my chin, a million gongs sounding in my head. I blink and look around. Acton's scrambling frantically for his tomahawk, his face full of bewilderment and terror. A nearby fig tree has burst, split into a tangled, blackened mess of charred bark and flaming wood.

"…to go!" Lily shouts at me, grabbing my hand and trying to pull me up. "C'mon, Summer!"

She's the only one who knows what's going on. I grab my pack and my spear just as another blast from the sky hits the ground, blowing a palm tree into splinters.

"Lightning!" Acton shouts, his voice barely a whisper in the cacophony of the night.

"There's a cave near here! C'mon!" Lily yells, shouldering the other pack and tightening its waist strap just as a third burst of lightning turns the oasis lake into steam. _Blaw!_ I'm thrown down by the force of the explosion, and it takes all my will to get up and follow Lily towards the nearby hills, my legs pumping as fast as they can.

A brilliant white spear of electricity catches the mountaintop ahead of me, blasting a ton of rock into shrapnel and debris that scatter out into the air for a half-mile in every direction. The air itself's alight with electric lances as the hair on my arms stiffen. I wouldn't even be able to hear a cannon in this din. All I can do is follow the shadow of Lily and Acton sprinting ahead of me, their bodies lit up like silhouettes with every flash.

I can't lose my spear. I clutch the weapon as tight as I can as I dash forward, stumbling and catching my balance as a blast of lightning turns a nearby boulder into a grenade. I tumble behind a rock formation and keep going, narrowly missing becoming a victim of the sky's assault as shrapnel pelts the desert.

_Bam! Bam!_

The attack intensifies. My heart races, my feet pound the earth, _thump, thump, thump_. The world turns into a blur of black and white, the darkness pierced by the screams of nature's rage.

Lily reaches the sheer cliff wall of the nearest hill and races towards a black mouth in the mountainside. A gap! Thank goodness she found this cave sometime before we found her – we can't stay out here much longer. The lightning's only growing stronger and more frequent, and it's only a matter of time before one catches us.

_Pow!_

Something explodes to my right. A rock flies up from the dirt and slams into my ribs, sending me tumbling to the ground. Pain shoots up my side like a wildfire. Acton races back from the cave, his face plastered with terror.

"I'm fine, go!" I shout, pushing myself up from the ground and wincing.

_I have to make it. I have to run_.

My heart's pounding and my lungs are burning, but I push the smell of sulfur and ash out of my nose and sprint headlong towards the cave. Lily dashes inside, and I see Acton reach the mouth of the gap and pause, turning back towards me. He holds out a hand, beckoning me on, on, on just a little further.

I'm two steps away when the ground opens up.

My foot slips and my stomach leaps. I stumble, my mind racing, my arms thrown out to grab Acton's hands. I look down towards my feet, but there's no sand there – only a dark void waiting to catch me.

"Summer!" Acton yells before he disappears into darkness.

He's gone. _I'm_ gone.

I scream and plunge into a steep downward tunnel, holding onto my spear as tightly as I can. My rear slams against slippery rock as I stretch out my feet, desperate to find solid ground. Pebbles and tiny rocks fall around me like meteors. I can't see, I can't hear but for my own screaming, and the only thing I can smell is the acrid stench of blasted rock somewhere far above me.

_Ow!_ The tunnel flattens out and I hit the ground hard, pain shooting through my hips. It's dark, so black that I can't even see my hands in front of me face. The dry air around me hangs with a deathly stillness. It smells of lost memories and of dust petrified in the silence.

I try to slow my breathing down, but every exhale sounds like a cannon shot down here. I resist the urge to pull one of the flares off my belt and light it – who knows what could be around me? Mutts? Other tributes? It hits me: This must be where Durum fell when Acton lost him. These tunnels must be part of the arena, a lower level hiding – what?

I glance around furiously, trying to see in the darkness. I can't help it: I feel around my waist, my fingers finding a flare and ripping it free from my belt. Quickly, I pry off the plastic cover and smack the flare against the wall.

_Fsh!_ Hazy red light fills the darkness with foreboding. I'm met not with mutts, nor with tributes or other danger.

I'm faced with only...nothing.


	20. The Darkness Unveiled

_**A/N: Manges, seven tributes have died so far officially, though I don't keep a running count in character like some stories – although there'll definitely be points where progress is noted in how far the Games have moved, just not in definitive terms on a per-kill basis. I try to limit it to just what Summer's thinking and experiencing, and the ambiance of the arena – cannons included – blend into a sort of anxiety white noise. Thanks for the ongoing reviews, though, I really appreciate it – and to all my reviewers/readers/followers/favorites, you all have been great! It's awesome to have a following on this story and all there is to come!**_

* * *

Panic.

I'm frightened, cold, and alone. I can see only rock on all sides, a yawning, black void of oblivion stretching off into nowhere not ten feet in front of me. The silence is deafening.

I try to listen for movement above me, but it's no use. Lily and Acton would have to be suicidal to follow me. For all they know, I'm dead or injured or crippled or…or…who knows. This isn't some small drop like Acton mentioned with Durum. That was a massive fall, a giant slide of a tunnel that deposited me in a foreign land. It's like I'm back at the Cornucopia, starting all over again.

Once more I begin alone.

My jaw trembles as I hold onto my flare and my spear for dear life. I don't know how long I'll have the light, but I'm praying it will last long enough for me to find a route out of here. I don't want to use the other two just yet.

I start slowly down the tunnel, careful to make as little noise as possible. The rock underfoot is hard and cracked, and the pale scarlet glow of the flare turns every shadow into a lurking demon. My heart quickens as I move forward down the shaft, each heartbeat like the sounding of a great bass drum. _Thump. Thump. Thump._

A small rock falls off the ceiling nearby and clatters onto the ground. I spin around and raise my spear, ready to counter the new threat.

There's nothing. I turn around, slowly, fear prickling the hairs on the back of my neck as I face…nothing.

Nothing.

Small, thin stalactites hang down from the low ceiling like fangs as I tread carefully down the tunnel. Something smells wrong. It's a scent of decay and flesh, of meat long since spoiled, like a cow dead of hypothermia, forgotten and abandoned until rediscovered after the winter snow melts on the prairie and the flies come to feed.

I move at a glacial pace as the tunnel winds back and forth, leading on into this labyrinth to nowhere. The flare holds up, but after what seems like an hour it begins to burn down the red stick I'm clutching. I have to find some sort of shelter or hiding spot. Exhaustion's overtaking me, and fear's weighing on my mind so intensely that I'm anxious I'll have a breakdown if I can't get a few hours of rest to think things over. I don't know if I'm safe or if a trap's lurking around the corner…and walking further and further into the darkness won't help. Not yet.

There! I spot a small, man-sized alcove in the rock just large enough for me to hide in. It'll keep me concealed from other tributes stumbling around in the darkness, at least…hopefully. I don't know if the mutts can see in the dark, but if they can, well, I don't know if I'd have much of a hope by myself and beset with jitters down here anyway.

I stoop low and wedge myself into the alcove, pointing my spear out at the opening in case I have to react quickly to someone – or something – walking by. I position my pack across my stomach as a shield just in case and rest my head against the rocks. Fear sends shivers up my spine and ants crawling through my guts, but it's unable to overcome how tired I am.

As my flare goes out, the darkness swoops in and drags me off to a world of dreams and nightmares.

* * *

_Clack!_

I bolt upright, smacking my forehead into the alcove wall and only just holding back a groan of pain. Something's out there, crawling around in the darkness, knocking over rocks and scouring around the tunnel for me. Without a second thought, I grab one of my two remaining flares off of my waist and strike the stick against the wall.

Grim red light shines out into the tunnel, but it's empty. My pack lies a foot away from the entrance, out in plain sight in the shaft. That's not where I left it.

Goosebumps jump up my arms. I pull my pack back into the alcove, fearful of what's around me. How long was I out? I don't feel too tired, but I'm hardly well-rested. Unfortunately, I can't tell how much time has passed down here in the tunnel. There's no sky, no sun, no rain, no moon, no stars, nothing but the rock and the darkness. A day could have passed…or an hour. A dozen cannons could have sounded or none, and I'd be none the wiser.

If I don't find a way out of here soon, I'll be adding my cannon to the list.

I allow myself to eat a third of my dried food and drink a quarter of a bottle of water. It's a lot, but I figure I won't eat again until I settle down for the night. Hopefully by that time I'll have found a way out, or even better, run into Lily and Acton again. I don't want them to have followed me down here, but admittedly, the fear of being alone for any longer's a much, much stronger pressure.

The flare's flicker makes every spear of darkness come to life like a sadistic puppet show. I shoulder my pack and keep my spear aimed in front of me. The silence is hard to bear. The tunnels have been as quiet as a tomb ever since I've arrived, and the unrelenting quiet presses in like a vise.

Another clatter! I jump and whirl around, my spearhead pointing off into the darkness…but there's nothing there.

There's nothing here at all. I'm getting the feeling that this whole underground area's just a small tunnel structure, a darkened maze designed to scare and encourage tributes to run into each other in the black. I need to keep my head on a swivel for others…but there's been no mutts, no gamesmaker interference, nothing out of the ordinary down here. Am I panicking for no reason?

The tunnel forks up ahead, and sitting right in the middle of the intersection is a small, shiny pack. My spirits left – I have to be right. I bet it's a weapon or something designed for run-ins with the others. Whatever it is, I can use the supplies. I have enough to last on hand, but I haven't seen the slightest hint of a water source or food down here. My mentors did say the audience hates kids starving to death or dying of dehydration…

Ah, yes. What a bore. What a shame, when they can stab each other instead.

I think back to Cal and Austin as I approach the pack slowly, my eyes searching for another lost, scared tribute or lurking trainee hiding in the forked tunnels ahead. Are they urging me on right now, telling me to pick left or right? Do they know what's in this pack? Do I have enough, or are they desperately trying to round up sponsors to send me another gift?

_How are they even going to get sponsor gifts down here_?

It hits me. That must be what the pack is for. There must be others like it around. A parachute can't make it down here, so there must be another way to get things in. Now that I get closer, this pack _does_ give off a shimmering glow in the light of my flare, even if I can't tell the color in the red light of my torch. Oh, well. At least it's something I can use…whatever it is.

I bend down and grab the zipper on top of the pack, eager to collect my gift.

_Pwsh!_

A cloud of smoke and gas blows up in my face. I jerk back and cough loudly, choking on thick, sour fumes. My eyes tear up from something hot and musky. The air smells like rotten fruit mixed with kitchen sauces left out in the summer heat for days.

I grab my spear and step back, searching for danger that has to be coming. It's a trap! A gamesmaker trap, luring me in while they unleash…what?

Nothing.

The tunnels are empty but for the darkness.

It's a sick joke! I bend down and grab the pack, but there's nothing in there. It was just a smoke bomb or something, a lure to get my hopes up. The Capitol's laughing at me for sure. _This is why she scored a five, folks!_ I can hear Caesar's voice all the way down here.

Try as I might, I can't get the sickening sour smell out of my nose. I cough again and clamp a hand over my mouth as I move down the right tunnel of the fork. What's the use? There's nothing down here but stupid scares and my own imagination gone wild.

It's just darkness, Summer.

Still, I tread softly and carefully. Though the gamesmakers might not have danger in store, other tributes can be anywhere. I stop at another fork in the tunnel and glance down the route to my left.

There's something vaguely orange down there, veiled and hidden in the light of my flare. I'm about to give it up as another gamesmaker joke when I squint and look back. Whatever it is, it's moving. Something's bent over, like it's looking through a pack or inspecting supplies. It's alone…and is that…hair?

No. Can't be.

"Durum?" I whisper.

A quiet, low, broken croaking greets me in reply, as if the silence itself has fractured upon a fault into the underworld. Tough ashen skin gleams in the low light and slowly, surely, something turns to face me. It's not a welcome face.

It's not a face at all.

Knife-like teeth covered in thick saliva jut out at odd angles from wide jaws. A dark, cavernous mouth gapes in an everlasting yawn, broken open beneath a messy hole where a nose might have been. Pale cavities are all that remains of what may have been eyes. There's no orange hair at all, but merely the tattered, frayed remnants of a red hood and avox uniform. Talons and muscle burst from the torn seams.

My breath dies in my lungs.

The mutt wheezes once, twice, three times, and I'm running.

I sprint down the right tunnel. My feet feel on fire as I run as fast as I can, grabbing onto my weapon and my light for dear life. _Help me!_

There's no help coming from behind. I only hear the mutt snarl like the first gust of a hurricane before the sound of its talons slamming into the rock behind me echoes down the cavern. I race ahead, pumping my arms, juking to my left and bolting down the next curve of the tunnel. My panting breaths tear at my lungs. My eyes water from the dust blowing by me at top speed. My ribs ache from where I hit them yesterday, but I can't think of that now. All I know is the sound of terror roaring behind me, snarling, gasping in the dry air as it comes to drag me to my demise.

Teeth. Claws. I can't die like that. _Run, Summer!_

It's gaining. I can smell its foul breath and feel its spitting cries splatter through the fabric of my pants. I'm running out of room.

There! There's a small burst of yellow light ahead, coming from…where? I don't know, but I have to make it.

If only I had more time.

The mutt's right on my heels. I can't keep running. I spin on my left foot and wield my spear like a mace, shouting my fiercest battle cry. If I can't run, I'll fight. Just as I turn my head and bring my spear down in a lethal blow, I freeze.

There's nothing there.

There's no mutt to take the blow from my spearhead, no spitting, howling visage of terror ready to end my life in a flash of claw and bone. There's only the gaping darkness behind me, taunting me with its emptiness, yielding nothing but a black void.

I breathe in sharply and look up, down, behind me again. Where is it? Where's it hiding? I know it's here. It was just there behind me. It's somewhere just out of my flare's light, ready to kill me, lurking and preparing to pounce just when I turn my back.

This is a trick! The gamesmakers have some hiding spot here. They're tempting me to let my guard down. They want me to die and spice up the arena a bit. I'm not falling for it!

I back up slowly towards the patch of light, crouched down and hoisting my spear up beside my chest. The flickering shadows from my flare's light make me jump. I stab my spear at nothing, catching only air with my weapon.

Something clicks behind me. I spin, lurch awkwardly to my right, and stumble forward after losing my footing. Before I can take a step to catch myself, the floor falls out from below me.

_Agh!_ _Not again!_ I tumble down into a sloping, rocky shaft. I hold onto my spear, but my flare tumbles out of my grasp, falling off somewhere below me into the growing glow of light. I flail to grab something as pebbles scratch my face and hands. I grab a rock just before it breaks off, and as I think I've found a foothold, I fall out into the open air of a huge cavern.

Down, down, down, and…splash! I plunge into a dark pool and go under. There's no light down here, and I struggle against the weight of my pack. It's dragging me down, down into the darkness, down into the depths that so desperately cling to me and call my name. _Join us. Drown, and become one of us. Do what you should have done at the river on day one. Give in. Die._

I bump into something hard and rocky. I don't know what it is, but I forcefully pull my pack off my shoulders and let my supplies sink. A small glimmer of light shines through the dark liquid above me. I force water out of my way, push against it, pull, and thrash with my spear until my head miraculously clears the surface of the water. I spit out water and step on something stiff floating down in the depths. I've lost my pack, but I only thick of a rock jutting into the pool from the side of the cave. I flounder and paddle through the water like a maniac, spinning, twisting, and thrashing until I make it, somehow, to the rock without drowning.

It's then that I see.

Stone holders hold lit wicker torches around the walls of this giant cavern. It's at least a hundred yards in every direction, with a small hole in the ceiling twenty yards above me. I must have fallen in through there into the giant pool that makes up the biggest part of the cave.

It's the pool that's not right. This isn't water at all…not from the color of the liquid that laps against the rocks, and not from the stains on my hand and my weapon.

It's the color of anger, the color of rage and love and every other vivid emotion. It's red. It's blood.

An electric shock jumps down my spine as I see my hand covered in the stuff. It clings like an unwelcome guest, covering every inch of me with violence. The things floating in the water…they're not packs, not rocks. They're bodies.

Limp corpses float in the water face down. Hair laps against the rocks. Hands reach out too late to save their owners.

I inhale sharply and stumble back into the cavern wall. The blood…it tastes like water, but water sure doesn't look like _that_. And the bodies…where did they come from? They feel like concrete, but is that from rigor mortis, or are they the discarded trash of Capitol experiments? What has happened down here?

My arms shake and my lower lip tremors. This is no ordinary maze down here. This is a labyrinth of something far more terrifying.

It doesn't take more than a minute of sitting on my rock before that thought withers in fear. The air itself rumbles like the first hint of a storm on the plain. Something moves the atmosphere itself – and it's not just the clattering rocks I heard in the tunnel above. This is something big.

When the air speaks, it speaks with thunder.

"Another craven in the deep. Why do you run…little mouse?"


	21. Walking the Waking Dream

_**A/N: Apologies for the long wait for this chapter, due to the site's technical glitches. Ugh. Thanks for the ongoing reviews, everybody – special shout-out to mangesboy and bethanydee, who have been great followers and reviewers despite my ongoing rambling through the arena here. Appreciate all my readers, and if you ever have questions or want me to read anything, feel free to ask!**_

* * *

I freeze.

I'm terrified even to draw breath. The air rumbles, displeased with my lack of a reply, curious as to my intent.

"You are not hiding, little mouse," it thunders, its words hitting me like earthquakes in my mind. "I can hear your every breath in the air. The fear on your skin…I taste the salt and bitterness. I see you through a hundred glass eyes."

I clutch my spear tightly. There's no way out of this pit. Rock juts out from every corner of the cavern, trapping me in this box. I can't climb up the hole I fell in through – it's far too high. I'm certainly not going back into the lake of blood, either. Not with those stony bodies floating like statues in it.

My head swirls. I feel like I'm stuck in some sort of pool of glue, floating and struggling in the muck. Pressure builds up behind my eyes as I hold my forehead in my hands.

Wait. I glance down at my hands again. They're…clean. There's no blood on them from the lake, and when I turn back behind me, the pool seems filled only with water – with no bodies to be seen. A ringing sounds in my ears as I try to shake my mind free of frustration and confusion.

What's happening to me down here?

"Now the lines blur, don't they, child?" the air purrs, simultaneously everywhere around me and in the deepest hideaway in my mind. "What is your world…and what is mine? These are your games, but this…this is _my_ arena."

My breath thickens in my throat. There! Hidden in the shadows emerges a thin shaft of light, no bigger than a thimble from where I stand. It's a tiny opening in the rock wall, and when I walk closer, I see it's just large enough for me to squeeze through – soaking pack and all.

"Where are you going? Eager to leave, little mouse?" the air – the arena? My head? – chortles. "Are you so anxious to confront more than the horrors you already have? You scamper from your fright, but soon you'll run into a box."

"Get out of my head," I whisper. "Get out."

"So soon? How can I, when you so kindly invited me in?"

The audience must be loving this. Watch the idiot girl from District 10 – now she's talking to herself! Or can they hear what I'm hearing? I don't even know, and that's the worst of it. The mutt, the lake, the words – these tunnels are like walking through a waking dream. It even feels like at as my limbs feel like lead weights when I scrape my way through the tunnel in the wall.

It's a tight fit. The torches in the cavern light up the space behind me and a faint yellow light shines in from fifty meters ahead, but it's still dark and shadowy in here. I remember the mutt bursting through the ceiling in the house on the prairie. In here, that'd be a death sentence. I barely have enough room to keep making my way forward.

Something howls. I stop dead in my tracks, my hand clutching my spear in front of me. It came from down the passage…somewhere out in front. What awaits me down there? Some new demon, devilry born of this mind-bending network of nightmares? Or just the empty chaos of my shattered thoughts?

I can't dwell on it. Turning back and bunkering down in the cavern is a one-way trip to death by starvation or worse. I slip by an indentation in the rock that threatens to spear me in the wall, grunting in pain as my knee collides with sharp stone. My frustration elicits a round of loud, pained wheezing somewhere in the space ahead. New fears swarm my mind like flies to rotting flesh.

Something cuts in front of the light, bathing my world in twilight. I pause and squint to glance ahead, but I can't see anything.

I've got no choice. I have to keep moving.

I point my spear ahead of me as a precaution and wiggle my way through the last twenty meters of the tunnel. I slink out into the light, waving my spear ahead of me. I shield my eyes momentarily against the yellow glare coming from small indentations in the wall filled with light, but when I glance around, I face…nothing. Nothing again.

Nothing but my mounting fears, growing atop each other like cancers of the mind.

I breathe in slowly, trying to stop my racing heartbeat. Every shadowy corner holds some new anxiety to crop up in my head. Every slightest sound is a foul spirit haunting my steps. The wide tunnel I've walked out into isn't easing my tension: The small lights that shine out of apertures in the rock don't look like any natural glow, but nor are they any sterile thing made of man's hands. They're unnatural, like they've just _grown_ in the rock birthed from nothing but the imagination of some twisted designer.

Then again, that's probably about right.

I pull my pack's straps just a little tighter around my waist and shoulders as I start off down the tunnel. This labyrinth has to end eventually. There has to be a way out.

"Headed into salvation or suffering, little mouse?" the voice speaks up again after going dormant for what feels like at least a half hour. "Is sunlight and escape waiting for you, or only a deeper dive into the bowels of a prison of your design?"

_Stop it_, I think, gritting my teeth as I walk. _You're not real. None of it is._

None of it?

The shadows, the hazy darkness, the isolation and the claustrophobia and the strange noises – all of it is driving me to the gates of madness. It's all a spectacle. All in the name of entertainment.

Even horror can be entertaining, and I'm just a character in the Capitol's show.

I feel like something's watching me with every step I take. A glance over my shoulder every ten seconds shows me nothing but the murky haze I've left behind, but I can't shake the chill.

The silence of the tunnels doesn't help. It's broken up now and then by a horrible hiss, a throaty gasping, a haunting wail, but no sign of any tributes – of Acton and Lily, of Durum, even of Ladon or Vespasian. It's as if I've been sucked out of the arena and into a forgotten land where I'm wandering through fog forever.

When I turn down another rocky tunnel, however, all that changes.

A brilliant white light blinds me. I throw up my hands and shove my spear out in front of me, desperate to hit whatever danger's arrived.

"Hold it!" a gritty voice snarls. "I've got a knife and I'll – wait a sec. You?"

I blink, but I don't lower my weapon. When I realize who's speaking, I almost fall over.

It's Thorne.

My district partner's just as beaten-down as ever, covered in dirt, dust, sweat, and mistrust. A trickle of dried blood trails from the shoulder of his torn jumpsuit, and his hair is a mess. He carries a disheveled blue pack on his back and a flashlight in one hand with a small, stubby knife in the other – hardly a weapon, more of a last-ditch prayer. To my desperate eyes and lonely mind, however, he's a miracle.

Assuming he's not here to kill me…and assuming he's real.

"Prove it," I breathe, narrowing my eyes and hoisting my spear with renewed suspicion. "Prove you're Thorne."

Thorne recoils like I've shot him. "What the hell?" he asks. "Didn't think you'd go insane."

"Prove it! I've killed mutts already!"

"Fine, fine!" Thorne says, waving his hands out in front. "I've been wondering how many gifts Austin and Cal have sent you. Figured it'd be that way, seeing as they haven't sent me jack nothin'."

I exhale slowly. Alright. That's the Thorne I remember – still disgruntled, still resentful. The arena couldn't have known what happened back in the Training Center.

"Sorry," I say as I lower my weapon. "And I've only gotten one thing – and I don't even know if it was them or my allies' mentors."

"One more than me. I'm slumming it out down here, and not even a sign of respect. Not that I expected much. At least you have allies…or had, seeing that you're alone down here. What, that lecherous guy from 7 decide you weren't good enough?'

"Acton's not lecherous!" I snarl. "And I saw what your little 'friend' from 3's capable of. Great ally you made during training there. I guess monsters have an edge in the Games."

Thorne snorts. "Yeah, whatever you say. I just want to get out of these damn tunnels. Where'd you come in from?"

"I fell."

"Dammit," he mutters. "Did the same. Can't really go up…well, fine. If you're not going to kill me, then I'll leave you to do…whatever the hell you're trying to do. I sure ain't your ally, but I can see who's got the better weapon here."

"Wait!" I plead before he can take a step. "Don't leave."

"Why do you care all the sudden?" Thorne says, looking at me with disdain. "Not like you did in training."

"Thorne, I'm freaking out down here. I don't want to be alone. Come on, we can…we can just find a way out of here, and then we can go our separate ways. Just that far."

"Oh, this is good," he laughs. "Now you want my help. Now you want to be friends, when you need me. Is this how it works over on your side of the river? Only play nice when you need something?"

"Thorne, please. We're both from District 10. I'm not going to do anything. I just want to get out of this place."

I can see the struggle in his head. His eyes flick across the ground, flying from place to place like a hummingbird. Finally, he says, "Fine. Just until we find a way out. Then I'm gone. Got it?"

"Alright," I nod with a wave of relief. "That's fine. Thanks."

He nods towards the tunnel and we walk on in silence. I get the feeling that Thorne's still mulling the decision in his head, that he's still suspicious of my intention. I can't blame him. I'm just another tribute like him now – and if he had a more dangerous weapon or a partner with him, I don't know if I would have asked for his help. Still, I don't think Thorne's a murderer. Maybe he's stubborn, maybe he's stuck in his toxic thoughts…but a ruthless killer like Ladon or Morse? I don't think so. I wonder how Thorne ever even trusted Morse. Is the boy from District 3 just that good at manipulation?

_If he's as good at laying verbal traps as he is physical ones_, I think, remembering Teff's bloody, horrifying final moments. _Then that's an easy answer_. It's not like Thorne's the brightest tribute in our field, either.

The silence is breached by an unwelcome guest: "You think he's so innocent, little mouse? What has your sullen ally of necessity done himself down in these depths? What have the darkest corners of his mind transformed him into? Does the same black seed that sprouts in your heart nestle in his?"

I shiver and shake my head. Thorne turns back and looks at me with a raised eyebrow.

"What?" he asks, annoyed.

I shake my head. "Nothing…it's just…nothing."

"Now you're giving me the creeps," he sighs. "Whatever it is, keep it to yourself."

"Have you heard anybody down here?"

He glances back with an irritated expression, as if to say, _What did I just tell you?_

"Heard anyone?" he asks. "You mean like other tributes? I told you. I've been alone down here. I haven't seen nothin'."

"No like…nothing weird? Nobody talking?"

"What are you getting at, Summer?"

I must sound like a fool. "Just forget it," I say, glancing down at my feet. "It's nothing. I'll keep it to myself."

"No need to be smarmy about it," he says with an air of finality.

A cold breeze blows down the tunnel as we start off again. I wrap my arms around my chest, shivering in the chill. I wish Acton and Lily were here. I can talk to them. I can trust them…can't I?

"Now the fractures form," the air taunts me as Thorne doesn't so much as flinch. It's just me, then. "How many of your _friends_ will turn their backs on you, little mouse? What can you rely on in your world, besides you and I? They left you. He'll leave you. You have been abandoned, thrown aside like a stone in the desert. Isn't it fascinating how all you cling to leaves you behind? Your tribute friends…your _mentors_…your _family. _A pair of parents who never wanted a second child and a sister who has dreams of her own, isn't it? Nothing left to see but you, alone and struggling in your screaming slog through the solemn mists."

I clench my fist around my spear. _It's just a trick. Just another gamesmaker trick_. _Just like the mutt and the lake_.

A low, deep, mournful moan jerks me out of my spiraling thoughts. Just when I think it's another manifestation of my mind, Thorne grips his knife tightly and looks around with a fearful expression.

"You heard that?" I ask.

"Obviously," he says. "Keep your damn voice down."

"What is it?"

"I don't know," he whispers. "But not a tribute. I know one thing…it knows we're here. It's stalking us."


	22. Hunted

Despite the chill, beads of sweat break out over my arms.

"It's not new," Thorne muses, glancing over his shoulder and ushering me on down the tunnel. "I've heard it every day I've been down here. I don't know if it's one or many, or what the hell it even is. All I know is that it's big and pissed off…and I could afford to stop listening to that horrible sound, too."

"You haven't seen it?" I whisper, glancing around for a shadow just out of place or a rock moving on its own. "Not even once?"

Thorne shakes his head. "Just in the darkness. It's hiding and watching. Capitol audience must like it that way."

Something unnerves me about this, however. The Games always have been about tributes trying to survive and competing with each other. Mutts have been stand-ins for when things have gotten boring…never a pursuing, indomitable force hell-bent on driving kids to their deaths. Whoever designed this arena, they designed it for far more lethal means than just a run-of-the-mill Hunger Games.

We walk in silence for a while as the tunnel winds and swerves about. I feel like we're just going in circles, and with every rocky intersection of multiple halls that we pass, I can't help but imagine that the one we don't go down holds the way out.

"How many have died so far?" Thorne speaks up suddenly.

"What?"

"The others. Who's dead?"

I shrug. "When I fell down here, there were….seven or eight or so? Why?"

"Like I really get much information down here," he says. "Haven't heard one cannon. Haven't seen much of anything. 'Til you showed up, the Games coulda been cancelled, for all I knew. Everything's the same down here."

"Maybe you're just going the wrong way."

"Well…now you are too."

The lights in the rock wall flicker once, twice, sending twitching shadows running across the tunnel. I jump and glance back, but there's no black demon stalking the hall behind us. It's just the lights.

I breathe in sharply and keep moving ahead down the tunnel. Thorne slaps his flashlight with his hand, but the tool's glow sputters and spits in the dim lighting of the tunnel. Darkness is closing in, and when Thorne's flashlight finally dies, I know we can't stick around here for long. If the lights on the walls die, all we'll have is the last flare on my belt – and if I lose that, we'll be sitting ducks in the darkness.

A loud _thump_ echoes down the hall from behind us. No time to wait around and think.

"Is there some sort of safe zone down here?" I ask as we hurry down the tunnel. "Like a refuge or anything?"

"As if," Thorne snorts, hushing his voice. "I found my stuff in a tunnel the first day I was down here. Haven't seen much since but the random food package. Fattening us up to die, right?"

"I'm a little more worried about what's behind us than who's watching, Thorne!"

He rolls his eyes. "What makes you think they're so different?"

No sooner have the words escaped his mouth then we're thrown into total darkness. The lights across the walls die with a snap. I can't even see the hand in front of my face, let alone Thorne or the tunnel hall.

In desperation, I snatch the last flare off my belt and strike it. The red stick hisses to life and bathes the tunnel in a savage scarlet hue. Gargoyle shadows dance across Thorne's face. Every rock is another lurking danger lurching forward to strike.

"Trap…" Thorne says. For the first time I hear a hint of fear in his voice.

I can't say I disagree.

I step up my pace to a jog and my district partner falls in behind me. Forget being quiet now. Whatever's making all the sounds behind us has to know we're here, and I can't help but think that we're facing serious danger. I throw a glance over my shoulder every now and then, but only darkness looms behind me. My spear is the only reassurance in this shadowy world.

When I round the next corner in the tunnel, the first fright jumps out and attacks me.

"Yah!" I scream, jumping back and shoving my spear forward.

The weapon clacks against bone. It's a human skeleton suspended by a noose around its neck…and it's not alone. A pile of old skeletons lies in a heap in front of me, blocking the passage ahead. The remains of large humans and small ones – and even what must be children – stack up in a mountain of discarded bodies. Skulls, femurs, and ribs litter the ground.

Thorne nearly falls over when he sees it.

"Dammit!" he curses. "All the bad luck comes when you show up…"

"Insult me later. C'mon!" I say, half dragging him back down the passage we just came up. I'm veering right back into the teeth of danger, but I don't have a choice. This isn't some illusion or trick of the mind this time. Thorne sees what I do – and what I see is a blatant sign that we don't have long before our eroding safety disappears entirely.

The air fouls with the smell of feces and decaying flesh. I shove an arm over my nose to block out the noxious fumes. Thorne coughs behind me and stumbles, recovering his balance just as something screams in the darkness. I jump, thinking it's a tribute at first – but no kid can make a sound like the throaty wail that follows it.

"Down!" Thorne yells unexpectedly.

He grabs me and knocks my flare to the ground. Before I can question what he's doing, he throws me down and into a small crevice in the rock wall. Everything goes quiet.

The ground rumbles. Something heavy steps through the tunnels we just ran down. I clamp a hand over my mouth just as I get a glimpse of a giant, vaguely human foot stomp an inch away from the flare. Clawed talons clack against the earth, and a thin covering of viscous goop covers tough ashen skin. The foot's big toe kicks the flare a few inches in mild curiosity as its owner – whatever it is – wheezes and huffs like a monstrous smoker turned into some horrible beast. I can feel Thorne shaking next to me, and it's all I can do to keep myself from screaming.

Thirty seconds are an hour to my frayed mind. When the beast finally moves on, its feet clacking and thundering away down the tunnel, a decade has waned under this rocky crevice.

Thorne and I wait a good five minutes before we roll out from the rock.

"Down the tunnel after it," I gasp, catching my breath after the tension of the moment. "It won't turn around."

"How the hell do _you_ know that?"

"Thorne, it's hunting! It probably thinks we're outrunning it! If it could smell us like a dog, it would have found us under the rocks!"

His fist tightens around his knife. So this is it. This is where we find out how much – or how little – Thorne thinks of me.

"Fine," he says after a tense second. "Lead on. But if it jumps you, I'm not saving your skin."

My fingers relax around my spear. False alarm.

I start off slowly down the tunnel, hoping to give the beast as much time as possible to build a lead. Still, I don't know what I'm doing. Where _am_ I going? The gamesmakers haven't as much as thrown a hint my way on how to get out of here, and when I come to yet another fork in the tunnel, I'm as confused and lost as ever.

Left it is.

A warm draft blows down from the tunnel. Despite the fear that pollutes my heart, the air's the first bit of hope I've felt since coming down here. The tunnels have chilled me to the bone, but warmth – no, that's new. Is it a way out?

"Think we're coming up on something," Thorne mutters behind me.

He's right. Light blasts in from every angle of a huge cavern as I round a final bend in the tunnel. I shield my eyes momentarily, adjusting from the dim, hazy glow of the flare-lit tunnels. This place is immense! It's a globular cave that must be at least three hundred meters across. Small holes open up around the perimeter of the room, with bright yellow light shining in from tiny cracks above. Hundreds of tall, skinny, flat-topped stalagmites jut up from the rocky floor like sentinels in this giant hub.

That's what it must be – a hub, a waystation, some sort of passage between the tunnels of the maze. Finally!

My optimism's dashed in no time, however. My ears perk up to a new sound, one so different from the howling, rasping, choking sounds of the mutt I've grown to fear in these tunnels. This is something new.

Voices.

"Down," Thorne says through gritted teeth.

I duck behind the first stalagmite I can see. I toss my dying flare down the tunnel we've come out from and grip my spear with both hands. Maybe we can lose them. This place is big enough, and there are more than enough spots to hide with all these pillars.

The voices are faint, but in Thorne and I's silence, I can just make out what these other tributes say.

"This place just keeps gettin' weirder," a gravelly voice grunts. "What is this supposed to be, a sculpture garden?"

"What's a sculpture garden?" a soft voice, a girl, replies.

"I just made that up. Beats me," the gravelly voice says. "Probably something in District 1, for all I know. Sculpture gardens and champagne."

"What's champagne?"

"Okay, c'mon, I've at least _heard_ of that."

Wait a minute. There's something funny about these voices.

"Do you drink this…champagne…a lot? How does that work?"

"No! You're making this all complicated. It's something the idiot victors drink in the Capitol and stuff. Ah, I probably shouldn't call them idiots. They won't send us anything."

"Well, that's fine. Haymitch won't send me anything anyway. He's probably drunk right now."

"What time even _is_ it right now? Maybe everyone's asleep."

_Haymitch_. I know him. District 12. But when I fell down here, there was only one tribute from District 12 left.

No. No way.

I glance around the stalagmite nervously and hold my breath. A tall, well-built boy about fifty meters away plays with an axe in his hand, flicking the weapon over and over. I can't see the girl who he's with, but when I hear the boy speak again, my heart lifts in joy.

"Just pick a stupid tunnel and let's go, Lily," the boy says.

I don't even stop to think. I burst out from behind the stalagmite before Thorne can stop me. As if on instinct, I scream, "Acton! Lily!"

Acton whirls around with his axe at the ready. His eyes grow as wide as dinner plates, but after a moment of recollection, he pauses as if he's seen a ghost.

"Thought you were long gone," he says.

Lily shoves him aside and smiles with a bright, radiant grin. It's the happiest I've seen her, and I'm guessing any anxiety she had over me nearly stabbing her has since passed.

"Summer!" Lily exclaims. "Acton, jeez, that was a terrible way to say hi."

"What am I supposed to do? Someone goes away for a day and half and shows up all the sudden by shouting my name…oh yeah, and we're in a competition to the death, right after a day where five people bit the dust –"

"How'd you get down here?" I ask, sputtering out the words. I can hardly hold back all the things I want to say – all the happy emotions welling up inside of me, just waiting to burst out from my skin. After hours of tension and stress and avoiding danger, seeing friendly faces is overwhelming.

"Well, after the tornado…" Acton starts.

"The what?"

"You missed a lot. Buncha kids died after you disappeared yesterday. Just a mess."

"So how'd you get down?"

I freeze. For a moment I'd forgotten all about Thorne. I look back and see anger and bitterness written all over my district partner's face. He doesn't want to see Lily and Acton at all, and right now, I think our partnership's coming to a quick end.

Acton raises his axe again. He's not happy to see Thorne, either.

"Your district partner?" Acton scoffs. "Runty lil' kid."

"I don't want anything of yours," Thorne replies angrily. "I just want out. How'd you get down?"

"Why the hell should I tell you? You're just in my way."

Uh oh. Lily's pulled out some sort of short sword – where'd she get that? – and I can tell that this situation's falling apart fast.

"Stop! Acton, please, just…Thorne's been fine to me," I plead.

"And he's one more kid between us and the end," Acton growls. "C'mon, _Thorne_, let's see what you got."

Lily pulls on his arm: "Acton, just let him go. He can't hurt us, anyway."

Indecision wracks Acton's face just as some little spark dies inside of me. I never felt anything _special_ for Acton, but I can tell through the way that Lily's words have more of an effect than mine that he's warmed up to her since I've been gone. I've been replaced in his hierarchy.

I only hope that doesn't come back to bite me.

"It's back there. The big tunnel," Acton says after a moment, curling his upper lip and jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. "Get lost, kid."

"Don't need to tell me," Thorne spits.

He doesn't have time to move, however. Something growls in the cave – something unnatural, something close by.

"More mutts," Acton groans, circling around to try and get a glimpse of what's approaching. "Not again."

I don't want to know what he means by that, but it's not five seconds before I see our newest threat. A dog stands near a stalagmite not thirty meters away, staring straight at me. I raise my spear and place my weight on my back foot, ready to strike.

"Just a dog," Thorne grunts. "Stupid."

But it's not just a dog. I squint, and when I get a better glimpse of the animal, I can tell this isn't some normal creature. The beast's lower jaw juts out of its face awkwardly and shines with razor-sharp teeth. Its head might look like a dog's, but a hardened sheen of bone covers its skull. Its hind legs are thick, powerful, and hairless. This thing's no dumb dog made for herding cattle. It's a fighting machine.

"Yeah, hate to agree, but he's right," Acton shrugs, lowering his weapon. "Look at it, it's just staring at us like that. Dumb animal."

Something growls right behind us as we're all staring at the mutt. I turn my head around slowly, and an eyeless, fang-lined, snarling head grimaces at me no more than ten feet away, crawling out from behind the cover of a stalagmite.

Acton freezes and mutters, "That's a new trick."

The second mutt lunges.

I don't hesitate. I raise my spear to take the mutt's charge, but the beast knocks the weapon's blade away with its bony head. It plows into my hip at half-speed, sending waves of pain shooting through my torso. The mutt snaps and claws at me as I use my spear shaft desperately to fend it off. Lily comes up behind it in a flash, jabbing her blade straight into the creature's neck. The mutt flails and screams, whipping around, dislodging the sword, and knocking Lily off her feet with a swipe of its legs. Before Acton can rush in with his axe, the beast takes off behind the nearest stalagmite and lurches into cover.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," Thorne moans. "Now even the normal mutts are getting smart."

Something clicks nearby. The first mutt – or is it? – pokes it head out from behind a stalagmite twenty feet away. I glance around, but as I look behind me, the mutt leaps out of cover and comes charging up the alley between the pillars towards me with a howling war cry.

I raise my spear again, but this time the mutt dodges and leaps out of the way a the last second, rushing off into cover just as another mutt – a _third _one – vaults off of a nearby stalagmite and snares Lily with its claws. She yelps and drops her sword, resorting to punching the mutt in the jaw as it spits and tries to rip her face off. I hit home at last, slamming my spearhead into the mutt's midsection and driving it into the side of a stalagmite. The beast shouts and snarls, clawing at my spear and threatening to work its way down the shaft towards me, but Thorne comes up and smashes his knife just under the mutt's thick skull plate. It twitches once and goes still.

"Summer!" Acton shouts.

I turn around. The injured mutt's a foot from my face, darting out from a shadow and lunging with murderous intent. Acton launches his tomahawk at the beast, smacking it right in the stomach and spilling mutt blood all over me. I pull my spear out of the first dead one's corpse and right myself just as the original beast and yet another buddy come sprinting in from opposite directions. _How many of these things are there?_

Acton thinks fast. He pulls a flare – one of the three I gave to Lily, I'm guessing – off of his belt and strikes the stick against a stalagmite. Just as the first mutt runs him down, he wedges the flare into the beast's mouth. The mutt flails and cries, clawing half of its own face off as it tries to dislodge the sparking stick from its throat, but it's just enough time for Acton to retrieve his axe and drive the blade into the creature's neck.

The final mutt struggles as Lily impales it on her sword, but it's a tough one. It claws the sword out and swats at my ally, nearly tearing her arm off at the shoulder as she dodges just in time. Thorne backs off from the creature as it ducks behind cover again, hiding just long enough to pop up behind me and unleash a demonic cry.

I ram my spear into the mutt's underbelly, but it's not done. It locks its jaws around my arm and rolls, and it's by some miracle that I manage to keep my arm attached to my shoulder. I scream as blood spurts and pain shoots up my arm.

There! I feel a rock under my free hand, and I don't wait a single moment. I slam the rock into the mutt's face, knocking it free from my arm and sending several shattered fangs clattering across the floor. The mutt whimpers and shakes it off, but I hit it again – and _again_ – and _again!_

"Ah!" I scream as I slam the rock into the mutt's bloody head.

The beast flails in its death throes, screaming, moaning, but I don't care. _Die!_ Again, again, again – blood splatters my chest and bits of gray goop spray out from the mutt's head. _Again!_

"Summer!" Acton grabs me and pulls me off as I swing the rock and hit air. "Summer, it's dead. Cool it. It's dead."

I blink. I've turned the mutt's head into jelly, a gooey sauce topped by the bony cranial shield, still intact atop it all. Juices ooze out across the ground. That's my work. _Mine_.

A black seed stirs in my heart. _Mine_.

I shake off the exhilaration and adrenaline to check my arm. It's bleeding, but it doesn't feel as if the bite were poisonous or anything. There's not much I could do if it were, anyway, and as Lily reaches into her pack and bandages my arm with a long white cloth, I feel fine. Better than fine, maybe. Angry. Content. Satisfied. It hurt me, and I hurt it _back_. I hurt it _more_.

"Screw this!" Thorne shouts, pointing a finger at me. "I was doing just fine until you showed up. You're just trouble for me! Ever since the train you've been messed up, but this is it. I'm done with you. I don't care if we're from the same district. We're done."

"What's keeping you?" Acton snorts. "Get going then. I sure don't want you around."

I clench my eyebrows and watch Thorne walk off. How quickly my feelings turned. Not too long ago I was happy to have him by my side, but now…now I don't care. Walk away. Leave.

I don't need you, either.


	23. The Arena Exposed

"You guys have anything to eat?"

My stomach's rumbling as soon as Acton, Lily, and I pick a tunnel and start our way out of the stalagmite cavern. I'm fresh out of dried food, and I haven't seen as much as an ounce of something to eat down here so far.

Acton pulls off his pack – apparently he and Lily found another one since I've been gone – and tosses me a small block of cellophane. I rip it open to unveil a thick, chunky, tan bar that tastes vaguely nutty as I bite into it.

"Some sort of protein thing," Acton mutters as I drink the last few drops of water from my bottle. "Tastes like trash, but I guess it keeps you going."

"Why are we headed this way, anyway?" I ask as I finish off the bar. "Why not go back to the surface?"

"Place is a wasteland now," Acton says. "The lightning and the tornado that followed tore it all up. It's a ton of debris and rubble. There are probably a few kids up there still, but I think the gamesmakers are trying to make a statement with the tunnels like the ones you fell in and the natural disasters. Whatever's interesting, it's somewhere down here. Might as well play along."

"All I've found are mutts, so far."

"Well, that's not much of a surprise."

I hesitate to elaborate. Would they think me crazy if I went on about the voice in my head, the blood lake that wasn't, the mutt that disappeared as soon as it had come? And what of the hunter? Is it still tracking me, or has it found tastier prey?

"Have you seen anyone else?" Lily asks me as she swings her sword in the air aimlessly. "Besides that other guy?"

I shake my head. That other guy…that's Thorne, always on the periphery, always watching and letting his bitterness grow. I wonder if I'll see him again. It doesn't seem likely now that he's taken off, determined to reach the surface while I'm headed deeper into these tunnels. Down here, I won't even see him in the sky.

That is, if he outlives me.

"It's gettin' warmer again," Acton notes as we push on through the tunnels.

He's right. A welcome draft swishes through the tunnel as we walk on, blowing back the subterranean chill. The dim lighting in the hall slowly grows brighter, and the pleasant smell of fresh air eases past my nose.

"I see something!" Lily says. Before we can stop her, she breaks out into a run and dashes ahead.

"Lily, wait!" I shout. For all we know it's just another trap! I sprint after her, Acton right on my heels. "Slow down!"

She dashes past the corner and out of sight. A sinking rock drops in my stomach as I run as fast as I can, desperate to catch up. I don't want to lose her to whatever could be lurking in these tunnels.

I hear her gasp ahead, accompanied only by her soft, "Oh…"

When I round the corner and find her standing statue-still, I'm left without words.

The tunnel empties into a great cavern that must be at least a half-mile across, if not more. A giant helical spire spirals up towards an oculus in a high, looming, rocky ceiling far above us. Orange sunlight shines in from the keyhole, sending a ribbon of dazzling light cascading down among the spiky rocks below. It's those rocks, however, that startle me the most.

This isn't just some colossal cave. Holes litter the hilly rocks that stand up from the stone floor of the cavern. By their square cuts and unnatural straight lines, however, I can see they're not holes – they're _doors_. It's like someone's carved an underground city into the cavern's rock, complete with blocky sandstone buildings and towers that emerge like stone sentinels from the landscape. It looks ancient. It's like some relic from a forgotten age, left to fossilize in the years that time's passed by.

"My god," Acton breathes as he sees it. "This is it, huh?"

Lily's breath catches in her throat. "It's the arena," she gasps.

"What?" I ask.

She points towards a great circular building beside the central spire. It's the tallest structure in the cavern, with dozens of doors cut into its exterior.

"All that's not the arena," Lily says. "Not the desert or the tunnels. It's this…this city. It's an underground arena, and they're herding us into it. And that…that stadium…that's where it'll all end, some way or another."

Her words send chills tingling up my spine. _That's where it'll all end_. It's like destiny's calling us here.

"Look!" Lily says again, snapping me out of my thoughts. "Water!"

I blink. A thin, winding stream cuts through the center of the underground city like a vein of life. Water, shelter – it really is the gamesmakers' dream. If there's food here, too, it's everything we remaining tributes need to fight it out to the death.

"Let's get down there," Acton says.

"Wait," I grab hold of his arm. "If the gamesmakers want us to go down, why are we doing it? It's a trap!"

"Summer, look behind us," Acton scoffs, shrugging me off. "What else do we have going for us? We've got to sleep, gotta get a plan together…we can't just sit around and starve to death in the tunnels. I'll fight before that happens."

I watch him step down onto the steep, short cliff that leads down into the cave city. I don't like this. I know there's water down there, something I desperately need…and my body's screaming at me to sleep after barely getting a wink down here. Yet I know this place, this elaborate, horrible arena, can only end in one bloody outcome.

I swallow my fears and follow after Acton.

It's a short climb down to the cave floor. I help Lily down the last few rocky handholds and jump down to the ground, letting out an _oof_ as my feet impact the hard stone. The central spire looms over us like a watching guardian, urging us on towards our deaths. Torches hang from the walls of the small, low-cut rock buildings that litter the outskirts of the town here.

Acton grabs a torch and sticks his head into the first building in front of us. It smells like old rot in here, and the yellow light of the flame casts flickering, dangerous-looking shadows across a small one-room hut.

"Nothing here but rock," Acton says. "There's gotta be supplies here someplace."

"Or Careers," Lily says quietly.

"Yeah, well they're bound to be some place. It's gonna happen eventually."

On we walk. The huts converge into narrow streets flanked by single-story buildings that stretch along the stone walls. Acton shines his torch into them, revealing nothing but the tense sound of emptiness. I wonder if people once lived here – if they called this place home, maybe after whatever destroyed the world that came before. Was this place ever more than just a gamesmaker trap? Was it something real, some last-ditch prayer from a people who clung to life as we do in the face of impossible odds?

Skinny stone bridges cross over the streets as we walk. The foreboding feeling of being watched hangs over me again, and once more, I can't tell if it's all in my head…or if something's really eying me as I pace these stones.

We stop after a half-hour of exploration that yields nothing, taking shelter in a small, nondescript, single-story stone flat. It's no comforting shelter, but sleeping on stone and rock isn't anything foreign to me by this point. It'll do until we get a better grip of our situation tomorrow.

"I stayed up last night. Gotta get some sleep. Your turn, Lily," Acton says, stretching out on an unclaimed part of the stone floor. "Ah, this is not gonna be a fun bed."

"Should I get you a pillow?" I say as I set my pack down.

"Yeah. A nice dinner would be good, too," Acton says. "If my dreams were cows, we'd all be having pork chops tonight."

"Pork isn't made from cows, Acton."

"Yeah, well…take your District 10 stuff somewhere else, Summer."

"Sore loser," I kid. He swats me away playfully, and I'm glad that our time apart at least hasn't diminished his boyish side. He's still Acton.

Acton doesn't waste five minutes before he falls asleep, his snores filling our alcove. Lily curls her arms around her knees and looks over at him with a disapproving glance.

"He's loud," she says carefully. "If anyone's outside they're gonna hear him."

I shrug. "There are spare socks in my pack," I offer. "I could shove them in his mouth to shut him up."

Lily laughs, a tinkling, whistling thing. It's the first time I've seen her show a happier side, and for once, I'm left wondering who my ally really is. How much have I gotten to know her? Apart from knowing she's from District 12 and fourteen years old – and apparently skilled enough to survive in the Games for the days we've been here – I've never really dug into her thoughts and dreams.

I settle my chin on my knees and flick my eyes over towards her. She looks older in the flickering light of the torch, her cheekbones more pronounced, her eyes thinner. There's a tired look to her face, despite its youthful softness. Her brown hair's messy and dusty, but also tangled and unkempt in ways that speak of surrender. She's tired. We all are, I guess.

"Anybody back home watching?" I ask her out of the blue.

She shrugs and says, "Just a little brother. And my mom and dad."

"So you…you guys mine coal or whatnot in District 12?"

"My dad does. Do you just grow animals in District 10?"

"No, we…we do other stuff," I say, waving my hand in the air for emphasis. "My family owns one of the district's ranches."

"Is that what you were going to do before…before all this?"

I shake my head with a slight smile: "No. My sister's older, so she woulda inherited it. I dunno…I never really thought about what I was gonna do. I just did things."

"Just going to marry a boyfriend or something?"

"No!" I laugh. "I'm not that lame. I've never even had a boyfriend."

"What? Acton said you were almost sixteen."

"So? It's not that weird. Have you?"

She shakes her head with a slight bit of remorse. "No…there's a boy a year younger than me who's cute, though."

"Hope he's not a jerk."

"I dunno. Maybe. I've never talked to him. His dad's a coal miner too…his name's Gale."

"So why haven't you talked to him?"

"I can't do that!" she says, flapping an arm in the air frantically. "Ugh, he's probably listening right now, too."

She's quiet for a minute before saying, "I kinda had a dream about him once. That sounds dumb. I thought we could just, like, y'know, run off into the woods outside the district. Outside the fence. Happily ever after and all that. Gah, I don't even know him."

I can't hold back a giggle that works its way out of my throat. It hits me: This is how the Hunger Games must be so painful to some of the victors. This connection…could I keep going alone, knowing I've taken any chance away from Lily and her dreams of happily ever after? The thought sends new shivers across my arms and drowns my nascent happiness in a flash.

My smile dies as I glance down at my feet. Exhaustion starts to take over, and I say, "I'm gonna...I'm gonna try and sleep. I'll leave you and your boy to be alone."

Lily huffs, but a thin little smile starts to crease her face as she looks away. In another world she could happy. In another land, another time, maybe she'd be a bright-eyed girl living her dreams.

Not in this one.

Dreamless sleep takes over almost as soon as I lie down on the rock floor. When I wake, it feels as if I've slept for days. It's refreshing to get some shut-eye finally. Lily's snoozing next to me, her hair strewn in tangled knots beside her. She's peaceful, but before another thought crosses my mind, I notice something out of place: Acton's gone.

Panic shoots through my veins, but as soon as I start to think he's abandoned us, I see that our water bottles are missing despite our packs still being around. I know we got close to the river last night, so I feel a bit relieved – he's probably just refilling our supplies before we get moving again. He couldn't have just left us.

Thunder roars through the air.

"Abandoned again, little mouse?" the emptiness mocks me. "Only the first of many, isn't it? Survive and you'll know only loneliness for years…or perish here and know but the void. Isn't that the end of all things? In death, there are no allies."

I freeze. _No. Not again_.

"But you are not so alone, are you? Not so abandoned," the air goes on. "But not by friend, but by foe…who walks these crumbling ruins, I wonder? Who stalks their prey, the cat to the mouse, the predator seeking, searching, stalking the final inch before they lunge? Are there any more holes for you to hide in, child?"

I brace myself for the shrieking, howling, wheezing cry of the hunter mutt and reach over to shake Lily awake. Just before I do, however, I hear something I'm unprepared for.

It's a voice. Not one voice, not Acton – but multiple voices, grunting, arguing, talking, dissenting.

It's Ladon and his band. We're not alone after all.


	24. Blood on the Riverbank

"Where'd he go? He was right there."

"He's not going far. I got him at least once."

I breathe as quietly as I can as the words from Ladon and his band echo around the stone buildings. There are at least two of them, probably all three of him, Raidne, and Erinye from District 2. What they've been up to I don't know, but I don't want to imagine running into them with just Lily on hand. Even with Acton here, our odds wouldn't be good.

Lily stirs on the ground nearby. She starts to yawn and say something, but I quickly clamp a hand over her mouth and pull her in close to me. My ally struggles in my grip, but I hold my free hand over her face and point a finger outside.

She stops. She understands.

"What was his name again?" one of the trainees asks outside, sounding louder now, getting closer. I think it's Raidne. "Don't even remember any of their stupid names."

Ladon sniggers. "Who cares? I just want to finish him off. I'm tired of all these damn stragglers. I don't even know how many are left."

"Vespasian's gotta be still around," Raidne replies.

"Gah. _Him._ And his little tag-along sidekick girl. Between Myrina and dead ol' Hector, District 1's freakin' useless."

I clamp down on Lily's mouth tighter as their footsteps approach. My breath slows to a standstill as one of them seems to stop right outside our hut. My spear's still lingering off in the corner – not in plain sight, but far enough that I wouldn't have a chance of grabbing it if they came in. We're lucky that our packs are in a spot of shadow, but all I can do now is hope they don't see anything.

_Please leave. Please_.

"Stupid kid's probably just running. Guess he figured he can't hide," Ladon says gruffly. "Bet he went to the creek."

"That'll be a big help to him. Maybe he can drown himself for us."

I hold back a sigh as they move on. Lucky break there.

Lily slips out from my stranglehold on her and grabs her pack and sword. "Where's Acton?" she says in a high, panicked voice. "Is he…"

Oh shoot. I didn't even think about whether or not Ladon and his gang had meant _Acton_ would they spoke about the tribute they were after. What did he do?

"Get your stuff," I tell her, jumping to grab my spear. "We're gonna go follow them."

"Summer, we can't fight them all!"

"I'm not leaving Acton either, if he's who they're after," I say.

I don't look up at her as I shoulder my pack. She's right, of course – it'd be suicide to run headlong into the teeth of their weapons. We'd be killed in seconds. On the other hand…I won't leave Acton to die like an animal.

Besides, there's a part of me that _does_ want to fight. I saw enough of Ladon in training to know he's a menace. I won't have a problem getting rid of him.

Adrenaline stirs in my veins as I poke my head out of our door. The street's empty, home to only the still air of this giant underground town. Orange-pink sunlight streams in from the oculus high above us, casting a long, sinister shadow from the center spire. I gulp and tighten my grip on my weapon.

"Let's go," I say to my ally.

"How are we just going to follow them?" she asks cautiously as we step out into the street.

"Up above," I say, noticing a crude stone staircase cut into the rock. "Let's get above the street up to the second level. The stream's the lowest point of the cave, so we can stay out of their sight if we're careful. C'mon."

_That is, if they don't look up_, I think as I hurry up the rough, hard stairs cut into the side of the street. Above the first layer of buildings is another hill of dark stone and brown rock, with smaller abodes connected over the narrow avenues below via thin, jagged bridges. I take cover near one of the huts and see the blue-and-green pattern of a District 4 uniform headed towards the center of the cavern down an adjacent avenue. There we are.

"Stay quiet and just follow me," I tell Lily.

She's as silent as an owl as we tip-toe our way over a bridge to the next row of huts. Ladon, Raidne, and Erinye are taking their time – and when I crouch down near the end of one long street and see them headed down ahead of us, I can see they're well-supplied and heavily armed. Each carries a backpack, with the two girls wielding short, curved sabers and Ladon toting a long, heavy, double-edged sword. I've got reach with my spear, but they're trained with weapons. I don't think I'd last more than ten seconds against Ladon.

I've got to think.

Attack strategies run through my head as Lily and I stalk the trainees from the second city level. We don't have any real throwing weapons or a bow, so no chance to hit them with a surprise. I suppose I could use my rope to try and strangle a tribute if one of them wandered off on their own, but what's the chance that'll happen when they're all pursuing one target?

There are no mutts around to lure them into. I can hardly use the stream as a weapon, since I can't even swim. A rock won't do much good against them like it did against mutts. C'mon, Summer, think!

The spire stretches up towards the roof in front of us. The stream bends around its far side, and it'll make good cover from up above while I try and think. I'm running out of time as I lead Lily to the base of the giant helical pillar. Terrible thoughts wrack my brain – thoughts of Acton being killed while pleading for mercy, thoughts of me cowardly hiding in terror as the deed happens, just like I did with Teff.

"There's the little runt!" I hear Raidne cry out. "Drive him to the water! We'll trap him there!"

Lily and I hurry into a wide, shadowy alcove in the spire's base, offering us a clear view of the riverbank. A bloody tribute stumbles out of a nearby street and falls onto his hands and legs, crawling with every bit of strength he has left towards the stream, desperate for escape. He's trailing blood and bits of viscera. He won't make it.

It's not Acton, but it's no less horrifying. It's Durum.

Durum, who's been down here since Day 1. Durum who doesn't even know his sister's long dead and already back in District 9 in a box. Durum, who doesn't know I'm watching him die, just like I watched his sister die. It's happening again.

_No_, an angry, raging animal inside my snarls. _Not again. Go out. Kill them_.

It's suicide, but logic's the last thing on my mind right now.

"End of the line, kid," Ladon scoffs as Durum reaches the water, desperately drinking a handful and falling over on his back to face his attackers. "Weren't you the one with a sister?"

I can only just make out Durum's quiet, pained, wheezing voice from this distance, but I can hear him say, "What'd you do to her?"

"Oh, hell if I know," Ladon shrugs. "Just wanted to know. Maybe she's dead already."

"Go to hell," Durum gasps.

"You first, bud."

I'm just about to throw myself out of our cover to defend Durum when someone leaps into our alcove. I whirl my spear forward to kill him, but the new arrival holds up his hand quickly. Acton! _God, I almost stabbed him…_

"Shh, shh!" Acton whispers. "Saw you come in. Stay still!"

"They're gonna kill him!" I whisper angrily. "We have to do something!"

"No! He's already dead," Acton says. "No point throwing our lives away!"

I'm about to run out anyway when someone _else_ interrupts the proceedings. It's as if the gamesmakers have herded almost everyone left in the arena into this one confrontation.

Oh, the audience must be chomping at the bit.

"Ladon, stop," a surly voice speaks up. "He's finished already. Leave him be."

Ladon lets out a snarl and whirls around. "You," he growls.

Vespasian and Myrina stand ten yards away, closer towards our alcove and emerging from the far side of the spire. They're just as fit and ready to fight as Ladon's gang, as Myrina's wielding some sort of long, slender sword. Vespasian, to my surprise, is only lightly armed: He carries a wooden staff with a thin, pronged spike on one end, hardly the dangerous war weapons I'm used to from trainees. I don't doubt his fighting prowess, however. I've already seen what he can do during our sparring in training.

Ladon laughs. "Is this it, then?" he asks loudly, forgetting all about Durum and turning his focus onto the more dangerous threat. "Is this the end? You, us, here on the riverbank?"

"No," Myrina shouts back at him. She's no scared girl. Her voice is like dragging an iron grate across the rock, her face full of steely determination. "We saw the boy from 3 earlier. Maybe more."

"Morse?" I whisper as I watch them. "Shoot."

"Is that bad?" Lily asks quietly.

"Yes."

Quietly, Ladon's two allies are edging towards their rivals. Raidne's looking to cut off Myrina on the riverbank, while Erinye's sticking to the right to force Vespasian towards the water and trap them both. I swallow hard: Suddenly, our cover spot's not looking quite so good. If Vespasian drives Erinye back, they'll be headed almost directly towards us. We have to move as soon as this fight inevitably begins.

Ladon tosses his pack to the ground and wields his sword in front of him. Without another word, he charges up the middle between his two allies, straight at Vespasian.

The boy from 2 doesn't hesitate. Even though he's smaller and lankier than Ladon, he steps to the side casually and stabs forward with his staff's spike. Ladon's quick to dodge and swings against the wooden staff. The boy from 4 has power on his side, but he's nowhere near as quick as his opponent: Vespasian's light on his feet, bouncing, stepping back and forth, quickly maneuvering here and there for position as he switches his grip to the middle of the long staff and fights with both ends. Even when Erinye joins the attack on him, Vespasian coolly handles both the sword fighters at once, one end of his staff swatting aside a blade while the other wards off an attack.

The _clack!_ of swords striking rings out as Raidne and Myrina crash into each other. We need to move, but I can't help but be transfixed. Part of me – a _big_ part – can see why the Capitol likes this. It's exhilarating fighting, even with the horror of children dying looming over it.

_Good lord_, I think. _How easy it is to lose yourself in this mess_.

I glance over at Durum as Vespasian elbows Erinye into the ground. Our ally's panting out his last breaths. All the rush of the fight is gone from me as I feel a wave of guilt slam into my gut. I let him down again. First Teff…now him.

"They're busy, let's go!" Lily says over the din of the fight.

When I look over at Acton, however, I can see he's feeling exactly the same thing. The clash between the two trainee groups could very well be deciding our own fate. Can they kill each other off and improve our odds?

"Come on!" Lily says, panic entering her voice.

That stirs me. I pull Acton up from the alcove and hold my spear out, careful to keep an eye on the fight as I backpedal away from the spire. We need to move off towards the outskirts and get away from the trainees. I can only hope that Acton's filled up our water.

Lily, Acton, and I rush towards the buildings behind us, but I take one last look towards the river before we dash back into the cover of the shadowy streets.

Myrina's on the ground, her left thigh bleeding horribly, but she's not done. She swings her sword in wide arcs to keep Raidne away, although the girl from 4's circling her like a wolf around downed prey. Vespasian's holding his own against his pair of attackers, even delivering a high kick to Erinye's chest as he catches Ladon's sword with the blunt end of his weapon. He drives Ladon to his right as Erinye stumbles past him.

Before I can blink, Vespasian stabs with one hand towards Ladon to keep him away, whips out a concealed knife from his chest, and plunges it into the base of Erinye's head.

A wave of heat washes over me like the blood that explodes from Erinye's wound. She's dead without even as much as a scream.

Lily's hushed gasp forces me to snap to attention.

"What?" I ask, jumping down onto the street with Acton and her.

She points back towards the spire and says, "Something's coming."

I glance back just in time to see two pairs of long, spindly brown legs crawling down from the structure. Not a moment later, something hard, shiny, and horrible emerges over the street we're running down.

It's some sort of a bug, with a pair of huge, lance-like pincers, an exoskeleton of plate armor, and long black stalk eyes. I'm guessing it's not here to examine the town's architecture.

"Oops," Acton says. "Uh…run."

* * *

_**A/N: Apologies for any potential confusion over names – I wanted to ramp up the pace a bit after last chapter's breather, and a big ol' melee seemed like the way to do it, given that we haven't had much tribute v tribute action so far. Any questions, give me a shout! Thanks for the readership as always! You guys are the best.  
**_


	25. The Naked Soul

_**A/N: I hate to be cryptic with some of my responses in the notes, but for the sake of suspense, I can really only verify who's alive based on who Summer knows is alive – that is, Morse (on hearsay) plus her two allies. Suffice to say, I can definitely say, however, that there's plenty more in the story to come, so rest assured that danger and tough choices still lurk about the arena in…various forms. If the arena now was aboveground and had access to the cannons and the sky projector system, there'd be more clarity on who's alive and dead. That's one of the twists of this arena, however: The usual standbys – parachutes, the death count, the cannons – aren't in play down in the deep. It's intentional deception to drive the tributes into the unknown and into their own projected fears. **_

_**Caution ahead of time: Chapter's gory. Because this is rated T, I won't be graphic in detailing wounds to any great description, but you should be able to use your imagination in this case.**_

* * *

_Clack!_

The bug snaps its saber-like pincers together and flows like a river down into the rocky street. It's not any insect or arachnid, like I expected. It's much worse.

The mutt's a gigantic, lethal centipede. Its carapace is a smooth shield over its vital innards, its legs spiny spikes capable of impaling any one of us into the ground without much effort. It's enormous, and I have no doubt that it wants one of Lily, Acton, and I as its next meal.

It's also a lot faster than I imagined.

"Run! Faster!" Acton shouts as he looks back at the mutt.

The centipede's gaining quickly, and it takes a turn in the road without even slowing down the slightest. My lungs burn as I sprint right behind Acton and Lily. We're headed towards the tunnels, towards the darkness that holds so much lurking, unknown danger. Right now, unknown's better than certain death that's on our tails, as long as the centipede can't follow us into the narrow, winding caverns of the underground.

I stumble and trip on a stray rock, sliding and skidding onto the ground. The stone street tears skin off my knee and leaves them red and bloody. Acton's there in a flash, dragging me up and shoving me forward, but it's enough of a stall that the centipede's gained crucial time on us. It's right on my heels, its foul pincers snapping together with the violent clatter of an iron gate slamming shut. Its legs are snare drums, sending out harrowing echoes around the underground town's streets with their cadence.

Lily reaches the tunnel first. She clambers over a fallen boulder and hurls herself into the passage head-first. A wave of relief washes over me: I don't think the centipede will fit! The tunnel opening's not much larger than Lily is, and when Acton reaches the hole, he only just squeezes in. We'll be safe!

I'm three feet away when a sledgehammer slams into the back of my knees.

"Wah!" I cry, flopping over to the ground and sliding into the boulder with my shoulder.

I roll onto my back just before a pair of jaws descend on me. Luckily, I've kept my spear in hand, and I have a moment just long enough to ram the spearhead into the creature's maw-like mouth. Brown goop spews out of the wound I create, bathing me in foul-smelling gunk. The mutt shrieks like a banshee and stabs one of its front legs towards me, just narrowly missing the arm that the mutt from the cavern bit yesterday.

"Summer!" Acton shouts.

I slam the butt end of my spear into the creature's right pincer as Acton jumps down from the tunnel entrance. He cuts with his tomahawk on the centipede's cranium, but the weapon merely bounces off of the mutt's armored exoskeleton. In retaliation, the centipede kicks me with one leg, swings its stalk eyes towards Acton, and charges headfirst into his torso. My ally can't even muster a word before he's thrown down against a rock.

Acton swings feebly at the creature, but the centipede uses its pincers to snatch it right out of his hands. With a loud _crunch_, the mutt's jaws snap the wooden handle of the tomahawk in half.

I shout and swing my spear at the creature's eyes. The mutt sees me at the last minute and catches my arm with one of its front legs. It's pathetic how easily it throws me aside. I crash into the ground with a painful, "Oomph," as a welt radiates from my hip.

The centipede rounds on me again, but this time it's too quick for me to prepare my defense. As its spiny leg comes crashing down towards me, Lily hurtles in with her sword at the last minute to save me.

"Yah!" she screams, swiping at the centipede's eye stalks with her blade.

The metal catches the right stalk, hacking it off at the base and sending brown goop spurting from the wound. The mutt shrieks in rage and shakes its head violently, smacking Lily back into the wall. I jab my spear at the creature's underbelly with the tiny moment of opportunity I have, but it doesn't care about me anymore.

The mutt wants revenge.

Spotting Lily woozily recovering by a pile of rocks, the centipede lurches with surprising speed and plows into her chest.

"Lily!" I cry, jumping to fend the creature off, or…or do _something!_

Lily grits her teeth, and in a flash of a second, I can see raw terror brimming in her eyes. She jams her sword into the centipede's mouth, but the mutt's persistent. The centipede howls a piercing war cry and rips at Lily's right shoulder with its jaws.

Bright red paint stains the rocks.

Lily screams. The mutt's jaws clamp down straight _through_ her shoulder, nearly taking her arm off and leaving the limb hanging by a thread.

"No!" I shriek.

My vision hazes over with dark thunderclouds. I snarl and leap atop the beast's carapace, lunging and grabbing its remaining good stalk eye with my hand. The centipede roars and barks, but I'll give no quarter, no mercy. I yank on the eye stalk as hard as I can and slice my spearhead through the taut sinew.

"_Skreeee!_" the mutt screams.

Grey muck explodes in my face as I plunge my spear into the fresh wound. The blinded mutt whips around in a fury, lashing out at the air in a frantic attempt to hit me. I roll off of its head and knock a rock into the wall, distracting its attention for a moment as I rush to Lily.

"Come on, you're alright," I lie, gasping for breath as I pick her up in my arms.

Lily's barely hanging on to consciousness. Her eyes roll around her head, her face wracked with pain, her breaths nothing but staccato wheezes. Her blood spurts all over me as I run as fast as I can to the tunnel. Acton grabs her sword and hits the mutt's jaws away as it flails. He has just enough time to follow me into the caves before the centipede slams its head into the cavern entrance. It lodges its first few segments into the tunnel before it gets stuck, blocking off our route back into the underground city and tormenting us with its wailing cries.

"Go, just go!" Acton says, pointing down the hall.

He pulls off our last flare from his belt and strikes it against the wall, sending up contorted shadows across the narrow tunnel. The mutt spits savage curses at us as we rush down the nearest hallway, not stopping until we can barely hear the centipede's anguished cries.

"Oh God, Lily," I breathe as I lay her down on the rock. "Lily, hang on."

Her pulse is weak, but the wound's still bleeding heavily. Lily's skin is clammy and pale, her face covered in sweat.

"Flesh wound," Acton says. "Give me your rope from your pack."

"A flesh wound?!"

"Give me the damn rope, Summer! Now!"

I unzip my pack in a hurry and pull out the metal rope. I don't know what Acton has in mind, but he hands me a cloth towel from his pack in exchange. "Press this down on the part of the wound that's closest to her chest and neck," he orders.

"What are you going to do?"

"Shut up and do it."

I press down as hard as I can on her injury as Acton ties the rope as tight as he can around her shoulder. Lily moans weakly. I use my free hand to hold her good hand, but I feel helpless. I can kill mutts, hurt mutts, and I have no doubt that I could hurt other tributes if it comes down to that. Yet when the moment counts, I can't do anything to stop Lily's pain. I can only sit here, watch, and hope for the best.

Acton finishes tightening the rope around Lily's shoulder and the stump of her arm still mostly connected to her body. The blood spurting out's slowed to a trickle, but when I look over at Acton, I can tell he's not finished.

The empty look in his eyes tells me he hasn't even gotten to the worst part yet.

"Keep your hand on that," he says, glancing down at her limp, hanging arm. "Cover her eyes and look away, Summer."

"Acton, do you even know what you're doing?"

"I've seen enough accidents in the woods back home. That dead arm's gonna kill her if we don't do anything," he murmurs, his voice slow and measured, as if he's walking through a graveyard at night. "But no, I don't know what I'm doing. Do you?"

He looks over at me with a heavy expression. His eyebrows narrow and his mouth firms into a line of steel.

"Don't look," he tells me again.

I place my free hand over Lily's eyes and glance away. "It'll be alright, Lily," I say with fraught conviction. I'm lying to her, but it's my only recourse. "It'll be over in a sec."

"Wh-wha?" Lily gasps. "What?"

"Hang on, sweetie," I whisper.

I hear Acton pick up the sword, and I grit my teeth in fearful anticipation. _Oh no, no…_

_Thwack!_

Lily screams. It's the most horrifying noise I've ever heard. My spine freezes.

It takes me a moment to realize I'm crying. I can barely keep my hand steady on Lily's shoulder injury as something splashes over my skin. Before I can react, the sound of something sizzling echoes around the cavern, and Lily's piercing scream cuts out.

"Don't you dare look over here," Acton tells me. "She's passed out. Keep your hand on that."

I hear Acton walk off down the tunnel. I clamp my eyes shut, trying to imagine something, anything, to take my mind away from this horror for just a moment. I suppose this is the Hunger Games bared naked for me to see. It's not the killing or the fighting that will break me. It's the helplessness to defend what I care about.

When all is laid bare, I'm just a tribute.

Acton walks back, his footfall heavy. "Ah, I hope she wakes up," he says quietly. "This place is just a freakin' nightmare."

"Can I look?" I ask weakly.

"Don't scream," Acton says. "Shoot, whatever. Anyone in the area has to know we're here by now."

I turn my head slowly. It's all I can do to hold back a panicked shriek.

Lily's arm is gone at the shoulder. Acton's cauterized his work with the flare to keep her from bleeding out, but I nearly pass out myself from seeing it with my own eyes. It's ten times worse than it sounded.

"No," I gasp. "Is she – is she gonna make it?"

Acton looks over at me, biting his lower lip. He lets a tense moment go by in silence before saying, "It's the Hunger Games, Summer."


	26. Waking Up

I spend an anxious day and restless night watching over Lily, but her condition doesn't improve. She lapses in and out of consciousness, her breath raspy and her skin moist and gray. Acton has no answers, and we won't receive any help from sponsors down here. I'm convinced that the Capitol's cut us off from sponsorship help down in these tunnels. We're on our own.

For Lily, that's a worst-case scenario. There's little more Acton and I can do.

We carry her deeper into the tunnels where faint light from the walls gives off a sickly glow. Our food's running short, and despite the water that Acton refilled at the stream in the town, I don't think we can make it too long down here without finding some sort of aid. The world's closing in around me. The tunnels tighten like a vise. The low-hanging rocky ceiling constantly falls in on my addled mind, a trick of my exhausted eyes. The strain's palpable.

I wake up the next day with a pounding head. My breath catches in my lungs as my heart skips a beat several times over a minute, not out of any frantic concern or new danger, but simply out of stress. I pull a frayed hair out of my temple and look down at the blood-caked, tangled strand. I must look horrible, but I feel worse.

"How's she?" I ask Acton with a yawn. He's up on guard, aimlessly playing with Lily's sword while hunched over her small body.

Acton shakes his head and frets, "Not any better. There's something wrong with it."

"With the wound?" I ask, stepping over and taking a closer look at our sleeping ally.

We pulled back the tattered sleeve on her uniform yesterday in order to give us access to her injury and keep it clean, but I can see now that we've done nothing. Green-black tendrils stretch out underneath her skin, spreading like a toxic spider's web away from the cauterized stump of her arm and shoulder. Alien blotches of depressed violet and angry crimson crop up across the side of her chest and around her collarbone.

"Infection?" I ask warily.

Acton sighs, "It was a centipede, Summer. I think it's poison."

I gasp. Realization hits me like an onrushing train. She's a walking corpse. We have nothing against toxins already coursing around in her veins, especially since they've been there a day.

"No. She'd be gone already," I say, grabbing hold of my denial. "It's just…it's just not healing well."

"Summer…" Acton says, reaching over and trying to console me, but I won't have it.

I swat away his hand and look away. Anger grows up inside me, replacing the hurt and the pain. "I want to be alone," I say, grabbing my spear and heading off down the tunnel.

"Wait, I didn't mean –" Acton starts, but I'm not listening.

I trot down the tunnel until I can't see him or Lily anymore, banking down three turns in the hall's intersections and going just so far that I can feel alone without forgetting my way back through this labyrinthine series of corridors. I fall down onto my rear against the rock of the caverns, finding a small crevice in the base of the wall and climbing in. It's just big enough for me and my weapon, and I curl into a ball, laying down my spear and pulling my knees up to my chest. In the despair that grabs hold of my heart like a mantis, the rock makes a good pillow.

I want to think and ask questions – questions without answers, questions of why, questions I know will only make me hurt more. My head swirls and my minds coalesce into an empty ocean where the fish wash up dead on the beach. What does the audience get out of watching a fourteen year-old girl slowly die in an underground tunnel? As Vespasian would say, where's the sport in that? How's that a game at all?

My thoughts wade off to memories of Cal as the minutes tick on. I can see why he said he never really came back. Summer – the Summer I used to be, the Summer who left District 10 – might already be dead. Can she ever go back home, even if she escapes, or has all this hurt and anxiety drowned her under fathoms of despair?

I'm jerked rudely out of my thoughts by the sound of loud footsteps. It must be Acton, coming to find me. Just as I'm about to roll out of my hiding spot, I'm stopped by a voice I didn't expect to hear again – and it's not talking to me.

"You!"

It's Thorne. He never made it out of the tunnels, I guess…but who's he talking to? I glance out from my alcove just enough to see my district partner without giving myself away. He looks even worse than he did before, and his small knife still is his only weapon. It's beyond me how he's survived this long.

"I thought you were dead, or…who knows, I haven't seen you since training," Thorne says. A thin, wry smile works his way across his face, something so unexpected I nearly yelp in surprise.

The next words freeze up any anticipation in me, however.

"Dead? No," an icy, apathetic voice drones. "You have made it, haven't you?"

_Morse_.

"I got caught up in some things. I've been down here since the start," Thorne says.

I wedge myself just an inch more towards the opening as Thorne walks past me. Morse is down the hallway a dozen meters, cloaked in the twilight shadow of the cavern's dim light. He's carrying the same stake he used to kill Teff, and by the stony, statuesque way he carries himself, I can tell Thorne's walking right into something nasty. I hold my breath and watch.

"That's all you've found since the start?" Morse asks with a dangerous tone to his voice. "Just…one knife and one bag?"

Thorne shrugs, "Give me a little credit. Not exactly many sponsors down here. So…still allies, right?"

"Of course," Morse says after the slightest pause. "I came down a passage only last night. The arena is trashed aboveground."

"Trashed?"

"A wasteland. Sand and sky. Stone and nothingness."

"Wait, so you've got to have seen the death counts, right? Do you know who's left?"

"You don't know?"

"There's not exactly any sky to show down here…"

"Ah," Morse notes, his arm twitching. "As of last night, I counted seven, including myself."

Thorne mutters something under his breath and says, "Still a lot left."

"Hurdles, for sure," Morse says. "The male from 4 still lives."

"I have no idea what to do about him," Thorne says. "Or any of the others, really. I bumped into my old district partner a few days ago. Wonder if she's still alive."

As Thorne looks around, I see a muscle spasm in Morse's neck. "Glenn, wasn't her name?"

"Summer, yeah."

"Ah. I…spotted her in the sky last night."

I freeze. Thorne slumps over and reaches his palm up to his forehead, looking away from Morse and down the hall. Morse lied…but why? What does he have to gain from it? A slight bit of warmth runs over me as I see Thorne's reaction. He almost looks as if he's crying…like he's really human underneath that bitter exterior. After all the times I've cursed his name and been happy to watch him walk away, I can't help but feel a shred of sympathy for the boy.

"Gah," Thorne mutters. "She was a naïve idiot, but…ah, I just can't help it. We were from the same district."

"It's one less hurdle," Morse says. There's a cold hardness to his voice.

"Yeah, but it's not like a trainee, or something," Thorne answers. "I mean, you can't just kill someone who doesn't really deserve it, even if they are annoying and ask too many questions."

Morse pauses for a long moment as Thorne looks away. Finally, I see him flinch and say, "I see."

I blink just as Morse drives his stake into Thorne's back.

Thorne gasps and arches his back, his face contorted in pain. The boy from 3 rams the sharpened wooden shaft all the way up to his hand, spraying Thorne's blood across the wall.

"I have no use for someone who cannot do what's necessary," Morse says, kicking Thorne to the ground.

My district partner quivers and shakes, his body tensing up as blood sprays like a fountain all over the ground. Suddenly, I'm no longer frozen in place. My muscles act on their own accord, like some outside force is guiding me with wires. I grab my spear and roll out from my alcove, jumping to my feet just as Morse turns. Without a thought, I lift my weapon over my shoulder, snarl an angry cry, and hurl the spear at Morse with as much force as I can muster.

_Thump!_

He stumbles back as my spear plants itself in his stomach. I don't bother to admire my work. I rush forward, lunging at Morse and gripping the spear as I drive him into the wall while he's still stunned. He grabs the weapon weakly, but I shake him off and toss him to the ground. I feel a frenzied energy start to take hold of me as I round on Morse. My adversary starts to crawl towards his stake that's still embedded in Thorne, but I don't let him. I growl and ram down on Morse's chest with the spear, pinning him to the ground in a spray of blood.

"Murderer!" I spit, clamping my foot on his neck as blood flows across my foot. "You killed him with his back turned!"

Morse's breath is filled with blood, but when he manages to say something, it's not what I expected. He laughs.

"Did…you do any differently?" he gasps. Sickeningly, he smiles.

"I saw you kill Teff," I snarl, crunching my foot down on his vocal chords. "I know you're a killer. You deserve nothing."

Morse cackles with his last bit of strength, blood spilling from his mouth.

"You're the only killer I see," he says. "Congratulations."

A red bubble forms and pops in the back of Morse's mouth. He slumps back, his head lolling against the rock and his eyes rolling back into his head. He's dead. I killed him. _I_ did it.

I would have thought killing someone would feel awful. I would have thought I'd be bending over the ground, throwing up in disgust, horrified by my actions. Morse is right: I am a killer. I've given in to the spirit of the Games and spilled blood. Now that I'm here and the deed's done, however, I don't feel any of that. I feel powerful. I'm enthralled. Watching Lily die slowly might tear the very fabric of my soul apart, but killing a monster like Morse...it was no harder than falling asleep at night back home.

Just one more part of the old Summer that's died down here in the dark.

I check Thorne, but there's no point. My district partner's dead. His skin's cold and stony and his eyes are white voids. I guess in the end he was right: He didn't have a chance. All that bitterness and suspicion failed him in his final moments, and he died when he trusted the wrong person. I should feel worse than I do for him. He's lived a rough life – first on the poor side of the river, than thrust into the Hunger Games. Yet I only feel apathetic when I look down on Thorne's corpse. His olive branches to me never extended any friendship or heartfelt meaning. I can't give him the same now that he's gone.

"Summer!" someone shouts down the tunnel.

I turn around slowly as Acton runs up, Lily's sword in his hand. His eyes widen when he sees the carnage, and he stops a few meters away from me.

"Lord!" he gapes. "I didn't know where you were going, so I…did you kill them both?"

I toss my hair over my shoulder and look back at Morse's body. "Just the one from 3," I say coldly.

"Jeez, that's…I'm sorry. Are you alright?"

I breathe in deeply and stare at Morse's corpse. Nothing but a hurdle, he called me. Well, shoe's on the other foot, Morse. I've just jumped that hurdle.

"I'm fine," I say sharply. "It was just like waking up."


	27. Vigil

Minutes turn to hours, hours turn to days. The blotches and smears on Lily's skin spread like wildfire over her neck and chest, and she's left blubbering incoherently when she's conscious. I keep a vigil over her throughout the day, just remembering to eat and drink while I kneel by her side. I've already thrown out killing Morse this morning. I don't care about him, about his body en route back to District 3 in a box. I care about keeping another one from heading out today…except this one to District 12.

Acton slumps against the rock wall next to me, twirling a protein bar absentmindedly in his fingers. He's quiet. A cold silence has hung over our party ever since he came and found me standing over Morse and Thorne's bodies. I don't know if he's scared of me, or if he just doesn't know how to react to Lily's decline, or both.

"Summer, we gotta think about what happens…after," Acton stutters all of the sudden, shattering the uncomfortable silence. "There can't be many of us left, and the gamesmakers won't let us sit here forever."

I don't respond. My fingers curl in and out of each other on their own initiative.

"Summer?"

I flick a pebble with my thumb, letting it tumble end-over-end into the wall. "I heard you," I mutter.

"Look, she's –"

"I know!" I shout. I don't care if it's loud. I don't care if whoever's left down here hears me.

Silence descends on us again. I ball up my fists and watch Lily murmur in her sleep, unable to understand any of the gibberish she's saying. I don't even know her that well, but I can't help but stay by her side. Out of all the tributes I've seen in the Games, she's the only one I've felt really never belonged here. Even Teff had Durum with her during training, and Thorne, despite his alienation and bitterness, seemed almost at home in the aloof and distrusting nature of the arena.

Not Lily. I wonder if the boy she mentioned, Gale, ever even noticed her back in District 12. I wonder if Lily was the quiet girl in school, sitting in the front row of a rickety old one-room schoolhouse, her head buried in her work but occasionally perking up to cast nervous looks around at the others. Was she happy? Will there be people to mourn her and plant a flower at her grave?

I can feel Acton's eyes on me. I shuffle uncomfortably and he says, "Look, I know I might look like just another dumb idiot, but…I get it."

"What?"

"District 7's full of lakes, so germs in the water spread pretty easily," Acton says, looking off towards the wall and gesturing with his hands. "When I was young, six or seven-ish, a Typhoid outbreak ran through my village in the district. I had a little cousin, just three years old. She contracted it, and we don't have any serious medicine. Not enough to beat Typhoid, at least."

"She lasted two and a half weeks," Acton says quietly. "But I know just watching and knowing you can't do anything as someone fades away ain't easy. Lily, well, I don't think she'll have to suffer much longer."

I look down at Lily as she balls up her hand in her sleep. It's almost as if I've been insulated from the worst of Panem through my life. Lily with her poor surroundings in the coal mining villages of District 12, and Acton with tragedy so early in his life – what have I lost, in comparison? A dog here and there? My parents might not care about me, but they've at least existed. My sister's always been there. I have friends.

Maybe I'm the one reacting strangely here. Maybe Lily's death is striking me so hard because I've never known this kind of loss.

"What was her name?" I ask softly.

"Who?"

"Your cousin."

"Oh," Acton laughs once. "Dahlia. That was…a long time ago."

"I'm sorry."

"No point now, Summer. Can't fix the past, just like we can't fix Lily. Nothing for you to be sorry about."

We look away from each other. This conversation's all wrong. We're already watching a girl in the last hours of her life. Why talk about even more death?

Acton doesn't help alleviate those little concerns in my head. "Are you…okay?" he asks out of the blue.

"What do you think?" I snap.

"I know, but I just…I mean, you killed that guy. I know you're treating it like it's nothing, which is more than I can say I'd do, but…between that and Lily and watching your district partner die –"

I snort and roll my eyes. "What am I supposed to do, cry about it?" I say.

"No, it's just –"

"I know what I did!" I yell, rounding towards him with my face an inch from his. "He killed Teff and Thorne right in front of me! I don't care!"

Acton quiets down for a moment before saying, "I know, I just…wouldn't want to see someone like Ladon win this thing."

I don't look at him, but I know a veiled threat when I hear one. He's warning me, pushing me, telling me he thinks I'm a murderer. Well, so be it. I don't see _him_ making the hard choices. I didn't kill Morse because I enjoyed it, like Ladon would. I killed him because I had to, because he was the killer, because he was one more obstacle in the way.

Just one more obstacle. Right?

I shake my head and wonder where that thought came from. Then it sparks up again in the back of my mind – that was Morse said to Thorne about me. _One more hurdle_.

Hm.

Lily shudders on the ground. I kneel down and grab her hand as her eyes open up slightly, glancing around wildly between the walls, Acton, and I. She mutters something incoherently in between short, haggard breaths. I don't think she has long.

"It's alright, Lily," I say, trying my best to smile and keep her calm. "You're fine."

Acton's face is full of darkness. He knows. These might be her final moments.

Lily's fingers tighten around mine, and she lets out a raspy, watery gasp. "I want…" she starts before she coughs up spittle and blood. Her voice is just a tiny whisper now, and her fingers loosen just a bit in my hand. "I want my mom."

I bite my lower lip and close my eyes. A weak cry escapes Lily's lips as I pull her into my chest, holding her head to my shoulder. There's nothing more I can do now but wait and make the end as easy as I can.

"You did good," I whisper to her. "You did real good, sweetie."

"Hurts," she murmurs weakly, her eyes closing shut again.

"I know, Lily. I'll stay with you. I won't let you go."

I don't. I hold her until her breath falls away from ragged gasps to tiny heaves. Her fingers slip away from mine and her head lolls against my shoulder. I don't let her go even when her heart can't force out one more beat but goes quiet, a damning, cold, lonely silence. It's not her skin that freezes at that moment, but mine.

Little bits of me keep dying in this arena like bugs falling away in winter.

I sniff loudly and my final line of defense falls. I lay Lily down on the ground and lean over her, breaking down and bawling my eyes out above her still body. I hit the ground the pain feels good. I look at my arm and wonder why I, _I_, have two of them, when Lily lost hers – and now has lost her final battle. She kept the centipede off of me. If I hadn't been trapped under its pincers, she wouldn't have needed to come in and save me. She wouldn't have needed to die.

Teff. Durum. Lily. It's not the killing that bothers me. It's the deaths I've been responsible for through inaction, not action. I'm a killer through my cowardice and my stupid mistakes, not through my spear and my anger.

"_Fuck!_" I scream at no one and everyone.

"Summer…" Acton says quietly, reaching over to put a hand on my shoulder.

"Give us a goddamn chance, already!"

"They gotta get her body to take home," Acton persists. "C'mon, we gotta get outta here."

"I told her I wasn't leaving her!"

"And you didn't! _She's dead, Summer!_" Acton yells back. "What else are you going to do?"

I let my shoulders slouch from the shock of Acton's explosion. "I just…she needs help…"

"You can't bring her back. She's gone," Acton pleads. "Summer, please. Would Lily want you to lose yourself like this?"

I brush a strand of hair out of Lily's face. She looks so lonely lying on the rocky ground, so far from home.

_Boom!_

I jump, thinking it's a cannon – something I haven't heard once down here despite the deaths – but it's not. A rock half my size falls down from the ceiling twenty meters down the tunnel. _Boom!_ Another follows it, this one closer, thundering down onto the ground and slamming into the tunnel.

Acton doesn't say a word. He grabs me by the waist, picks up our packs and starts dragging me as fast as he can the other way.

"_No!_" I scream, clawing at his arms, desperate to keep Lily's body from being crushed. "Let me go!"

"They're taking the body! Don't be an idiot!" Acton shouts at me.

He's too strong for me to resist, no matter how much I scramble and struggle in his grasp. I fight every step of the way as he pulls me down the tunnel, watching as rocks fall down around Lily's body. A final boulder drops in front of her, and I see nothing more of my friend from District 12.

"Lily!" I shout.

"Let's go, dammit!" Acton yells, forcing a pack into my hand. "Run!"

The rocks start falling faster and faster. With Lily's body gone, a desperate, panicked animal in me wakes up. I shoulder the pack and grasp my spear tightly, sprinting off down the tunnel after Acton and swallowing my sorrows.

We rush to the nearest tunnel intersection, but rocks start falling in on our left. It's clear: The gamesmakers are herding us. We're running right into the teeth of the arena, right where they want us. My legs ache as I run as fast as I can. My lungs burn with every breath, already worn out from crying over Lily. I narrowly avoid being crushed by a boulder as big as I am while bounding past the next intersection, cutting to my left and following Acton's fleeing footsteps as quickly as I can.

_Boom! Boom!_ Rocks slam down around me as my vision narrows. The tunnel closes in around me with darkness. It's trying to take me, too, trying to drag me off to wherever they've taken Lily.

No. Not today.

I follow Acton around a corner just as the tunnel opens up. He stumbles and falls down a shaft, and I can't stop myself from doing the same. I tumble head over heels into I fall into Acton's chest, my head slamming into his chin and my feet landing on a fallen boulder.

"Ugh!" I exhale as I shake off the throbbing in my head.

I push off of Acton, stand up, and look around. Of course. Lily was right about this place. We're back in the arena – the _real_ arena. The underground town looms up before us with a much more menacing chill now that I know few survivors remain alive in the Games.

Off in the distance underneath the shadow of the cavern's central spire stands the giant circular stadium that Lily pointed out when we first arrived here.

That's where they want us to go. That is the end of all things.


End file.
